We found the Feral Poet in a somewhat serious and reflective mood this week.  To the point, we cite this:

Guitar Against Wall

Against the wall a brown guitar
containing thin, transparent, white afternoons
the crawl of stucco shadows
under blue tile roofs

and a man, who after much effort
has succeeded in visualizing
his own limitations,
the absolute crackling edge of his knowledge:

a low green hedge, grown close
and neatly trimmed, and in the field beyond,

a man plowing.

* * *

Say You Will

Floating face
down
in calm green sea,
I imitate the drowned man,

approximate his casual drift
up onto sand    there really is
no hurry now   arms out,

legs limp, letting go
to subtleties of wind and current,

amino absorbed.
But life’s transparent membrane
stiffens miles thick,

to disallow my knowing
all he knew  say you will
say you will.

* * *

Sucking Chest Wound

I am telling you this
from a great distance
though my breath
is in your ear.
The sound
when you were hit
was like a board
struck sharply on a pillow.
Pieces of your shirt
turned stupidly in the air.
I saw and heard
the beautiful pink froth
of your entry wound
build tiny sea-foam sculptures
that swayed in outlaw exhalations.
I went by the book
and placed the wrapper
from my pack of Camels on the hole
but it imploded
like a plastic star.
I stuffed in all the money
I had, but it wasn’t enough;
black silk pajamas followed
and a severed ear
that laughed blood
but still the new red mouth
breathed wrongly on.
You need to know
that only when I filled
the hole with earth
did your insane lung
stop its monotonous whistle.
I packed in dirt
until your mouth and nose were full
and they carried you off
like a palm tree.