Poetry Less Than Daily

Strong Poems. Beautiful Poems. Tough Poems. Poems w/ the F-word. Poems less frequent than before but no less kick-ass.

Friday, March 18, 2005

Terrance Hayes


Soul, I am going to ask you again
to return the thin white gloves
I lent you that night.
They were not a gift.
Return the pearls
and at least twelve
of the eighty-seven kisses
I filled with water,
I am dying of thirst.
Have you forgotten
my name? Soul, a week ago
you scurried beneath the fence.
I need armor
if I am to leave this house.
I would like to wear
into the world
which drags me around
like a piece of tin.
I need the gleam
of the black Packard
crouching in the drive
and the strong fingers of the girl
picking thorns for a crown.
Soul, return the black boots
and felt-bottomed collection plate.
I was waiting
for the hour’s darkest page to turn
when you cast down
a succession of notes.
I remember watching you
cross a footpath into the woods.
I remember watching you
vanish into a thatch hut.
Soul, return or return
your slow extractions.
It is time you ceased being a poem.
Show me the words
written on the back of the map.


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