You, Taking A Wondrous Comfort In Genealogies, Scent Us, Lay Call & Rovers

[jeff harrison]

another careless tale, twenty hyperboles, 
your praise feigned so, Bibliothekarius tells us, 
erroneous as oaths quaint scorn it enormous so, 
lines of drowsy writhes, not by what's memory, 
else the fog darts at Virginia and thee, whose 
name is an exceeding ocean, whose tongue reveals 
human lyric TO BE the tardy invective of a quadruped 


it's my lot to sit here and sort your crowns -- 
would you break my features into sweets 
for a thousand several Virginias... here's but one -- 


my current countenance I've named 
The Expression Of Death Torturing Death 
sembles thee, only more consumptive-looking 


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