Poem by Jodi Johnson




For you, banrinceoir.



It's worth it, awake with the chinoiseries.   Not quite of raw, instead the elaborate mint directive
             hail slumming the espalier pear.   Day for the salivator, day for the blooded choir, day this for

drunk hummer of talk; day, heart brute, with this, what now can you say of any use?   Strike the cup
             fucking speak; everything the puzzle-headed, the welter day in which one unguests  :-:  Phaedrus

undripping from the Ilissus; place of unguent :-: as you lean       overlooking only     from isthmus to isthmus
             day this for heart unbruited, sky as day for     heart darned over. Love and love for us

where love even
                supervenes its lockgrinder      and, if you follow, you follow out:

         field of fields    florid as hell's supreme non-options
                 and, as you disclose
                                     I bring myself    to bow albeit          into the contoured    that nested doll
             burse away from that dumb and airier    self-torture and its métier
                                                                                                                 passion and from you

skin-cleansing celandine,
                                                    child-bringing dock clung under and

into calling on this house empty, swept and garnished I'm out
                 and say to you    so you
                                                                              reluming through that five-wondered plié
                 saying mi si sintonizzerà questo lira senza macchia a voi until

my dreams resume of the honeyguide,
                                            holly from purported to purposed in driving ghosts; and it's you (and it's you)

that kohl unstable  :-:  ligne
             off the bar.
                          I bring up positions on your magnetic chart,
and you believe nothing
               spit water on the modern herbal, do more than slip the fetter: in anger whip the water,

slap the currier's list of leathers to the aplomb all sounds,   say    that I should flank

flank the such and such
               unblanchers of the heart until it's clan and it's clout,   until

instead I read off for you
             in minor but stately
                          stately and measured shot-silk

blessed is he who has
                                       blessed is he who has crucified the world  /   and who has not the world to crucify him

until the lemonskins
                fall from the corners of the bed
                                                             lest the actual now    bring hesitation in its shadow-lade

upwind from our pacific savoury   :-:   sky gladdens into the electuary
                                                                        you and I
                                                                                           where we regret the
                                                                           undulation and undulation        regret in spent and its respent
                                             pressing to the very lagan :-: love in that lung embonpoint

in love the repeatable accipio omen  as I took into your hand deer-feeding red clover
              the wire-rooms over with pheasants where light destages to omit the volition

in matters pent as the heart permits all and no centrisms, sings from the damper perimeter
             in cant and cant and cant.