These stanzas are drawn from a book-length poem composed in syllabics – in a five-line stanza called a “cinquain” (with lines showing syllable counts of 2,4,6,8,2), invented by the poet and prosodist Adelaide Crapsey. It might also be helpful to note that the poem as a whole writes through, very loosely, the framework of The Book of Margery Kempe, the first autobiography in the English language – dictated by an illiterate, fourteenth-century, female mystic.
skin you could see
a road beating a path
to my door through the cricket smoke.
holds up her hands
hollering “Please don’t let
’em hurt my boy!” But why she’s got
of the moon: is
that my mother chuckling
to herself? Is our house still there?
door? I hate to
see the revelers go, she
says, the same one whose fingers comb
her mouth first to
slick my cowlick down. Then
she takes my hand, we go outside
never did pick
more white daisies, not for
fear of her return, but because
of white daisies.
Before long, with a good
pinch, she’d sealed off the cure, her head
you don’t just leave
a walnut sitting here.
No one would dare leave a walnut
where the road ends
weren’t nothing he knowed of.
Red and dark red and dark. Nope, not
Fool back out of
the smoke hold a candle
to your chin. Gorgon City. On
la doorbell est fuckée.
I will not be sad in this world just
The porch and the stairwell of the lamp had disappeared. They exchanged a few words. Moonlight blocked their way. Retracing their steps, they found the door and entered the same room. What they remembered had long since changed into something else.
trouble all I
can see, no law down here.
My charmer’s expected sullens
normies keep on betting,
body dodge on past, running most