Michael Tyrell
Almost spring, & our dictator’s new order:
everyone in our country must
French-kiss the frozen utility poles—
the boulevards become maypoles
of muffled wailing, move too much
& you lose the mind,
to keep the tongue & the mind pick a
word to keep in your mind, blunt like
starve or trowel or cudgel,
say it will be coming up crocuses soon
those clouds not the shoulders of ice-storms,
say I love you, say don’t unstick me
say there’s no country around us,
that was a fable spelled out by a television,
& look—all the sensible disobedient bastards
loose & running, they’re swinging long stockings
filled with small change, they want
our eyes like pearls, a blind currency—
and how does that song go that starts
I didn’t choose you, that’s how
I know you’re mine—
O accent
I can’t lose without drawing blood,
make me naked again