by Tom Saer

Any grip I had as a child
On the warrior’s earpiece
Amassed a certain sympathy with Freudian audio and the plaintive
Cry of a caterpillar

The other cups
Made out of moral tortoise shells
Say nothing about the grief of the immortals
Or the baby dragon in her eye
Or the formula for a silent engine

Shaking empathetically
And being otherwise generally thespian
She kissed his wish for composure
And reached a momentary blood flow
Too explicit to stay alive

A depth charge in father’s frontal lobe buried the boat
Sewn with Tartarus needles

It took great offence in a realistic sense
At the case for Satan and his comparability
And that the son of Priam was rescued from his innocence
By the only transplant left

A very tall man is waiting outside with a python of pages
Coiled and waiting to be eaten
Crowned in perfume and vitamin C
I think he’s expostulating about
Three uncertain suns and three eccentric sons
And the legendary sinner who forgot how he survived

Saturn’s sixty-two automobiles
Take my palms to new places
And show me the only measure of justice I need
One little parietal flourish

Our Zodiac blanket and
Feathers under wood steam and
White wine in the underworld
I have lived them all before