Dallas Wiebe, p.2


Fol-de-rol, you rattlebrained
   discombobulation of skin,
   you dismembered version
   of the last supernatural flux.
Fol-de-rol, and singing of grayness
   in the pusillanimous nebulae
that Jack built on the banks
   of the Ohio credit and loan.
Fol-de-rol’ing, old contusions
   on the latitudes of right extension,
   on the meridian of half-skinny
   carpets and take-home pay.
Just think, if you may,
   what dangerous inversions can be had
   in the soft drops of the hustle.
Just wonder, if you can,
   what sovereign demarcations
   lie along the heartbeat.
Just believe, if you want to,
   what justifications fathom
   the ebullient claims of fathers
   who lost their knocks
   on the cliffs.
Many are the weary
   who range in age from zero to none.
Many are the hungry
   who range in size from small to absent.
Many are the meek
   who range in fame from unknown to never were.
Wash off the soot of high thinking.
Dry off the ashes of right minds.
Put on the dipsomania
   of cattle at crossroads,
   of horses at hotels,
of crowds of gassed heads
   at county fairs.
There’s something to be said
   for the delinquency in salvation.
What it is is unknown.
Only the cardiology of the dead
   spells out the last verification.
Open your door, Stella.
   The rain has stopped.