by Glenn Ingersoll
It is only something new if
you think about it glistening, sweaty, the novelty
of its burning skin chill with
the fragments of an old promise that got
fulfilled, perhaps, but never published.
If you must take out leftovers
and glue them to paper plates and
cut them with silver-plated scissors
and drill into them with screw-like
inquiries, then remember to wear
protective roses and wire, and
put on your child’s garden in order
to more perfectly use them
and use them up. No mistaking
the bobbing nature of the melody
beaten by a hailstone melted into
a teardrop faded into a stain on silk.
Let it be its ages, its eras; let it
go one of five ways, the water already
feeling its skin toughen.
It is only underneath that the cure
begins to work, although the symptoms
perform the person. When reborn,
scream, then eat.