Thursday, July 28, 2011

NEW! Poem by Kyle Booten

Kyle Booten


You've heard about the order of the waves,

established many years ago by boys

and girls disguised as boys.  Wholly artless,

they plied the crests barehanded.

You've heard about their hands, but have not touched

or been touched, else you too would be clean

and constant, governed by the distant sun

or its viceroy umbrellas.  In their shade

you saw many people alive with sugar.

Every person is made of water; so

every person is, or could be, a radio,

a rudimentary song harvester

with no search-dial, bleating random tunes

or static.  I trust you've heard of static,

that place where songs surge and overlap.

Half-graveyard, half-battleground,

it grows more crowded every summer.

Songs have to go somewhere, after all.

They can't seek asylum in the future.

You've heard about the future, or even

leaned against it once, unawares,

mistaking it for a chain-link fence.

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