The first day: Truelove sends Second, he sends books, and underlinings— We cultivate with iron tea and hours: Johnny’s tender, breakfast croon. true as a child’s crayoned circle of bird— His is a glistering, brass whirr — Kate Potts “A Partridge — A Pear Tree” poem by Kate Potts, read by me (Click title link for text source; click here for image source). I don’t know why I’m making recordings when I have a cold.
a shushed blue morning hour, the mute
absurdity of tarmac, a sobering of worn toes—
the upbeat’s echo dredges us home.
Sartre’s mutter—something is beginning.
The words stem: flesh-nub,
furling bruise of a clear, new shoot.
milk swigs, sweet drams, the open breath
of television at the schedule’s finish,
lush with nebula and static,
The fruits set, wax, fluid and flesh,
specked skin—a fatty, nibbled velvet.
At four A.M. he cawls,
twig-foot, shut-eye. He’s
no hart, nor dove, but gamey,
winter market plume.
of wings, a glide—a chestnut tail.
I put by the feathers;
ease the meat from the bone.
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