Sold Out

The blue, or sapphire, plastic WAL-MART bag
bulging with black plums and sweet cantaloupe,
a fetus in its amniotic sac,
bursts as it lands on the volcanic dump.

Homer, Trojans, tampons, mockingbird chirps
mingle in the stinking heap, seeking links,
non sequiturs like an Exquisite Corpse.
Solomon’s vineyard feeds Breton’s blue fox.

Tell me, Wallace Stevens, tell me now, what
device can tame these acidic scents born
from the mush of books, beasts, mildew and Donne—

not something jarring like a rifle butt,
but formal, fitted, proven as a worn-
out filter, say, fourteen by ten by one?

Fort Worth Art

Here's a link to my work published in a new online site dedicated to Fort Worth artists. I'll be sending some new work. If you frequent my blog, you have probably already seen what's currently up.

Browse the site and check out the other artists here in Fort Worth.

Fort Worth Art Space, Aaron Roe

The Double Landscape

The majestic eye loosens from its stem.
You must kill the tree to know its true age.
Its rings are wrought of gold, its gold is gray.
The satin thorn wields its fang without rage.

No breath is made in the absence of clay.
But drop by drop the air consoles the lungs.
The pressing storm expands the shrunken field.
The peach tree blossoms quiver like white tongues.

The still lake lies like an abandoned shield.
Spears of rainfall deflect off its surface.
First darkness sleeps beneath the silver roof.
An elusive swimmer seeks his purpose.

A child collects fossils to prove the truth.
Hair, string, straw are all the bounty of nests.
The proof of life rests in nurturing death.
When the hawk drops from flight, the birds confess.

Being