Broken Poem

After Spicer (probably)

I said
too bad old friend
about time
and how you're still inside it

and therefore

unable to operate upon it

like those idiots stuck in whales
or lions, their dens
in the great captivity of faith which

like time/chance

happeneth to us all
no matter how bad Christmas can be
or how low rents fall in the flat-iron

alliterative
a low ritual

quarks, top quarks
pose like the flowers
of grandmothers
briefly undying,
nonlinearely

a bell chiming

I saw your democracy
snagged in North Carolina's blood grass
crushed by highway gusts
exhausted by the billow

the mountains were incredible
and much too frantic to count

no apology is good enough
for our making the windshield
truely, our greatest failure

but not for failing
the last battery of waves
on darkish, March rocks