John Latta, p.1


Ah the sweet sanctity of --------(bump).
Now that's not going to do it.

Voice is contusion, scrap the body retool'd.
Rapt to a dislodging music.

Impossible worlds rub against that word (any).
My morning is waking up in a tizzy of

Partiality, the only absolute
A sundering,

A trial jerry-rig'd by talking animals
Nosing through the dictionary of a slightly akilter whim.

Charles knows it and Humphrey knows it too.
Like beagles, blind to an absorption

That frigs the counter-contrast
Like a kodalith, like despair.

We are moving slowly inland now--
That's our ship out there in the harbor surrounded by tugs,

The ones with fraying bound bundles of linen out front,
Bumpers whiskery as schnauzers,

Those square-faced dogs that illustrate the virtues of
Companionship in the snarling teeth of

Adversity in a number
Of children's books circa 1940, 1950, 1960

And the decades that give lie to these proceedings
By receding in our ship's wake,

Nearly complete now, zig
Meeting zag, zag hallooing zig.