Wednesday, July 21, 2010

Let Me Tell You This

Let me tell you this
there are no new words
for the heat of this room
in robust July I swelter
in a new cave made delicious
with the palm of your hand
slapping my thigh
I am moving
through the past
into the present
at such high velocity
that even you can feel
me gravitating towards you
I am radiating heat rising
from Brooklyn people stop
midstep all aghast at what
once stood dry and still
but now is wet and whirling
let them have their trains
and offices I have this twisted
sheet and this black book
full of notes you'll never see.

2 Comments:

Blogger Phil Rafferty said...

I like the internal contraction of this poem. Your grand statement "There are no new words" is nicely contradicted by the "black book/ full of notes you'll never see." Well done.

1:57 PM  
Blogger Todd Colby said...

hey phil, thanks for dropping by. "internal contraction" isn't that what happens when you eat too many cherries?

9:28 AM  

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