4 Poems

Karen Garthe

    
  
         

            

                                                                  Fool



                             I repair fast, but spheres
                                                           of countless shame bells

                                         strides of limitless beheading



        ACORN AT DAWN, a pink gold rule of pinch hours
                               
                                Fool Blue

                                Air, O Beautiful Path
                                
      indecent orbits of Cruel Streaks running their powers

            glittering pipe snakes of great masters

                    & the miserable flute girls of gender corn whose babes gurgle sleep
 

 
                                                 Tumult, Dear Tumult



                                                              East to West the sky was shuddering
                      old-fashioned dying   30 Nembutals and a plastic bag
                                                                                            but Tumult,      
                                                                                        Dear Tumult,
                                                                                        I was serene
                                        hear Ye see Ye
                                                 Next anybody thumping so
                                                           and properly soft
                                                                                        mannered
                                                                                  I tranquiled

                                                                     DOVE    HIGH OVER

                                                                  THE SPAN
                                                                                  East to West
the sky shuddering if we’re not alone or if we are    vaults If you disappear      If
                       you vanish. . .               
I felt for the bridge of the underbelly, Tumult
                                                                   Firm
                                                                  Material beside you
                                    the brass kiss glistens
                       habit flecks deliquesce
                       they beat everyone hard now

               hear Ye drum rain sounds so. . .
             Ye throw down trees

  
    
                                                    Quest

                                                                 (if the mints are poison


Little Sinecure governess come face to face with her master, two trumpets
Greet the dawn of
His little lambs)

Unenchant me off the pony charm, gait        Unenchant me from the veils, poles
your charges’ iron field thru scatter
unenchant                   but please do not dissolve me

                                Leave something

            

             of me

      Something left
                      I have covered and misled, I have
 stated your formula and long practice     Please Unenchant Quest
             
Rising and neighing, impatient for its ride
to redress
            my robe’s
            Broider
                                   I am Ancient

                                          leave something of me, little
                    sinecure
                    elegant spore of profession

                                                Night for Neptune

                  It was a birth      or a Knew        or a re-birth
                          no time passed or occupies

                      Held us not cold salty sinking tribbled in fossil deliver coin
but Held
us ageless     crisply in the halls and  Dear, to ask. . .

                         it was

                                                 the register of beginning

                     liquid’s crinkle  pomegranate nozzle
breast flood sprung from the rich yello yolk we’ve got
                                         flying hands for,
                                                 night for,
                                   Neptune dredging sounding
    Our Look upon the old grace sashay
              diaphanous ancient
                      free float with so many plates in Air

                Air
                     that Air’s
grandiloquence life never surrenders
we reached

the end of mourning