My sun is made of vellum. They accuse
It. But what if this is so? It sends out flares
That scare away eclipses since their Muse
Is garbled freedom. I prefer the stairs
Of Jacob to defamers’ ladders for
Wild salmon and the loosest leaps for spawn.
My moon is made of parchment from the lore
Of distant pasts. My critics think it’s wan.
They want just shredded paper in a pout
Of anarchy. Papyrus with the lines
Of Sappho on it is the type of shout
I want, or even hieroglyphic signs.
Destruction like R. Mutt’s is not for me.
Those sculptures made of iambs are more me.
~ Phillip Whidden
by phillipw | Aug 1, 2024 | Uncategorized |