Ear To The Last Fallen Leaf
I can hear the wood underneath the finish,
the stain in the grain. And the sand beneath
the glass and cooled fusion. And the walls
suffocating under paint. And the earth under
the asphalt. And the current within the wire.
And the staples trapped in the carpeted corners.
And the rivers succumbing to plumbing. And
the sun trapped underneath my freckles. And
the fire trapped in Zippos. And the light trapped
before the finger flicks the switch. And to me
museums are almost unbearable prisons. And
the seeds in the wombs I hear and the names
engraved in stone. And the bubbles in the beer’s
amber. Sometimes I hear the grains martyred
in fermentation for my buzz. I hear the spores
on fern-fronds whispering under winds’ wisps.
And the orgasm waiting within your abdomen
as i lay my head on your bellybutton. And the storm
of rain waiting to condense up from Lake Michigan.
And the stranger in the window thinks I can’t
hear him. I hear the pit in every peach. And
the queen within the mound or the hexagonal hive.
And the scream lingering within the lung. And this
constant poem wailing between my two ears
Like a universe of constellations waiting for the night to fall.
gods are psychic debris
gods are avalanche: me
crazy in the debris, we
unhappy to be just flesh filigree
symbiotic and psychically see
gods are avalanche and we
on top of the ride kamikaze
lives lived on mountainsides exploding
we be crazy Commanches, be
artisans of sea and tsunami
in the freespun cyclone
I reach my hand in and pull out
wineglass shards without getting cut
magician of tongue-grappling
ing-ing as only wings can
gods are avalanche of wings, see
gods’ skies fall on me
gods are psychic debris.
Joe Milford is the host of The Joe Milford Poetry Show (Joe Milford Poetry Show) and the co-editor of Scythe Literary Journal (Scythe Literary Journal). His first book was published by BlazeVox press in 2010. He is a full-time professor of English and Creative Writing in Georgia.