Poem 62

they came by car and train and hills
to rooten up the rumor mills
watched helpless as they–toothed
and clawed– scuttled after me.

I remember coming out of a well calibrated
attempt at raw religion; self deprevated,
poorly delivered across a stale glass
of cheap champaign.

I could recite those last moments of sheer
possibility and with them devise
some semblance of truth. they come, milling
after me; the truth and the possible.

two blows to the limping leg of propriety.

Poem 62 RevisedPoem 62 Edited