Saturday, May 6, 2023

Geoffrey G. O'brien


from Metropole


Peripheries stream by, the hair attempting to keep pace with aftershocks a modest laughter sends its way, a room supposedly beyond the windowsill, the head content within a neck’s quite general song. Part nurse, part soldier, citizens protect the whole and so they fall in love with neighborhoods, with they allowed to mean all things and neighborhoods outlasting supersession, verging on the musical in overlapping rising voices from next door, the angers that have flocked

Together to examine each the other’s fluttering edge, I used to tell myself this story: civics is a game of heads and tails removed. Then would fall asleep to prove it. Even drifting down the storefronts to a private square, I got concerned about her chances in a world where angry pipings cross without regard. Only snow machines can quiet them then only long enough resumption goes withstandable. Most thoughts confirm the season they occur in ends. The driver silently agreed

I’m not so sure I know why anybody pays the fare. We grew up in the 70s or 80s then some fractures rang. I won’t eat anything capable of song and you, you’ve grown the short invisible lead that pulls you from an appetite. A lazy panic like the line I’m trying to remember loving quoting it for you: the flower absent from these men in evening coats are ice a step away from them espousing freely. To get citation right you’d have to read past everything but be

No comments:

Post a Comment

Anne Carson

No you cannot write about Me I think I should go in and see her. Can I stand it. She is shaking. No doubt. I should go in. She’ll be pouring...