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paste!
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The gray sirens
It comes up later, but for now,
when you sit on the hill
it tears out my eyes.
Strings, strands and strips of able
dissolve into the pond
before you compress into it
and become a light.
You're a hand.
You should take better care of your directions.
If you can dance
then our plantation will explode
from your tasty stature,
but it'll be warranted and graded.
Hey, a mouse with a clue:
he says "the document shrill,"
turns green, steals a car.
It is never the rabid samurai or bondsman
it is always the girl
when you grab onto the liferaft.
And it isn't a liferaft but a stungun
loaded with a Harvest of The Pertinent Season,
which is to say, a grape-skinned cube.
Back to her, the girl with decisions;
she slept under a tree
and a mouse took her lines down,
those uncanny deliveries:
What does the clue do for you, Shy Canoe?
Is it dangerous as a flooded houseboat?
Something makes the grayness in the siren
rupture out through its spinnings
until we wait
for it to hit round #2.
The gray siren wallops,
it figures mines in our pauses.
It knows how to hotwire our stuttering,
so we can delay
without losing our bending grit.
To be preset with fuzz distortions
is like armbanding the gray siren
and not knowing how to explain to it
that metatonic rinsing does nothing
for the dirty sponge.
She moves around now, pacing behind the hill.
"the document shrill" is nothing but a choice
to compress an ideal into a stone trellis,
exact and tinier.
And following, to be precise,
she drips out roads from her fingertips
and then walks along that skinny red line
until it runs out and she stands still
thinking about what she hasn't yet become--
that aspect of non-being--
that thinking which then falls apart
into many stone parallelograms,
completing the shape of a slab.
how in the finale
who are you
i can't tinker the odds
while timing and stymeing
the spinning gray sirens
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