How odd to be here surprised by it,
what was coming, if it came -
as it has so far, so far seeming
like the coyote’s tip-toe lifted -
now the precise shadow of an ACME anvil falling.
The desire for zest, for acrid pith,
tearing membrane, the bright acid sweet-oiled orange,
pulp and juice lipped and tongued - to evaporating complacencies
of Sunday morning peignoir meditations on death and beauty
sputtering to a nap in late afternoon.
If it isn’t death it’s beauty. Or beautiful death.
Or the death of beauty. Or deathly beauty.
Or sex. It’s often sex.
Which is, the urge - still.
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Comments
the coyote's tip-toe lifted, the tearing membrane, the surprise of the common and the complex. Howl!
STATHI STATHI ~ hmmm....
Rita ~ Maybe the shadow brings the noir, too. That anvil....
catch ~ I'm so glad you liked the tip-toe lifted!
femme ~ Yes the sputtering nap seems preferable, though it lacks that certain frisson...
Divorce Bard ~ I don't know about classical allusion, but those cartoons were burned into my psyche.
Kate ~ Yes. This poem came to me after a conversation with a friend about the surprise - and once you've felt it, it becomes somewhat unrelenting, which is part of the strange confusion of it I think - like you still can't believe what you're seeing.
My very best wishes to those who face such a difficult, shocking and sad time.