Matthew Romaine, p.6


He is mugging the orchard its oranges
and benefiting from the resulting hoopla
narrowly escaping in spite of his shin-splints
to throw the grappling hook off the castle.

A white rainbow arches in the distance.
Smoke signals dim the lettuce patch.
Train schedules report on placemats
the colossal blunder of the coppers nearby.

In this humongous contemporary farce
a stable of italian horses stamps out a champion
and a staff of dawdlers in penguin suits
slate the next great arrival for midnight.

A jilted guard naps in the ductwork.
A moray eel refracts in the bowl of his dream
and far below his fetal pose
a celebration for the famous cage-match
rewards its relevance with leek-green champagne.

New age bells adumbrate the adrenal sky
and one lavender seed is spit into a mitten,
the first trace of the culprit. But those aren’t his eyes
out there in the darkling wood
those are two peeled cloves of garlic.