}} Gravity Is the Next Page |

Poetry at Sangam

SangamHouse

 










Gravity Is the Next Page

You are
a fence
I am
a bird’s-eye view
This poem is
a coil unwound
We are
agnostic practice
I am
epistemic
We are
one hour short
This poem is
a hand and a hammer
You are
encyclopedic illustrations
This poem is
armature
I am
amateur cryptography
We are
Tall Meadow Rue
You are
the imitation of a room
We are
antidotes
I am
the magnolia tree
This poem is
threaded with holes
You are
antonymic
You are
a palm against wood
This poem is
Brown-Eyed Grass
We are
counterfeit pronouns
This poem is
a small dish of milk
You are
femur and joint
I am
pouring salt
This poem is
history without geography
You are
Interrupted Fern
This poem is
a dry-docked vessel
We are
a homemade dictionary
You are
aperture
This poem is
geological refrain
We are
latticework
You are
fictive pronouns
I am
a gaze instead of ––
This poem is
astrologically unsound
You are
celadon
I am
a reed instrument
This poem is
Bristly Aster
We are
a wingspan
This poem is
an algebraic equation
I am
a narcissus on the mantle
You are
that other word for absent
I am
no one’s mother
This poem is
a stream of water
We are
re-issued
I am
no middle-class ritual
We are
supply and demand
You are
a polite greeting
I am
between stations
You are
sly rehearsal
I am
ticking celluloid
We are
a seam between waters
You are
a central angle
I am
weak in a strange place
We are
homespun taxonomies
I am
torsion
You are
the empty lexicon
This poem is
a clinical hour
You are
neither radio nor TV
We are
clad in downy feathers
You are
the banks of the river
This poem is
a field in winter
We are
internal rhyme
You are
a chalky trace of hands
This poem is
the trunk of a tree

               From A Machine Wrote This Song