A laborious wakefulness or was it a most unapologetic whistling in the ear
I lack full, clear proof of his skin a drum.
Have I always been under-sided, a quandary’s
viscous lowered aura, for example there is the fact
I’m inclined to disbelieve the violent vapours
of black bile, a stab, a treason mounted. Am I
really seeking to assure the delegates assembled
in the cerebella what lies beyond the shadow
of the doubled shout. On Radio However—
whose throat I hesitate to sit by the fire attired
in a brocaded dressing gown: day, un-arisen day.
About which writhing dream do I curl. Pretend
you’re on Zeus, on Coltrane – yes, they are aural
truths and no, I do hesitate to hear the rusting killer
roses arriving. A key in, is a big reverse decay horse.
A killer is: spattered your life a dirt viola. Is there
a core ambiguity to the small un-armoured hand
bobbing near the beach. Your pen say, “On na floor
is da pride era. On lil’ roommate day whom can we
know?” What proves the head is not of a resilient
earthenware. Even me, in-country, on panting,
I’m unsure who or what delimits the third shift from
to sky to sky to sky. I’m inclined to disbelieve
the three-phased gesture of “complete” reading. Yo’,
send a bad onion, lacking glory, a day-glow hum and O
am I truly in a Potawatomi state of mind. Do I believe
in the will as hinge or tinged trilling. I am in doubt
about, “So be it, traveler,” undecided as to whether
pumpkin could be the initial building block. Quantities
sell. For example there is the fact that I am here.
—Shane Book
About the Author
Shane Book is a Wallace Stegner Fellow in Poetry at Stanford University. His poems have appeared in 1913, American Letters & Commentary, The Iowa Review, and Volt.
