Awkwardly weekend: a bona fide giant in a kitchen. Emotional giant.
Awkwardly the week is over on us, is come over to us. The flu is come
over us. The stationary is crinkled. The meaning of Sebastian, bye bye.
The baby asleep is a strange shape. A strange shape is two birds flying
in a V, a W. Without you I am going to fake reminders on my hand. Do,
don't sense chores. And off to the stables then! Today I looked across
the gas heated room: cinderblocks—just think the fire they expect in
this room!—paint cracked on almost all of me. The water stain over
your head so you could see my neck stretched, looking, so you could
look and I could see. Birdsong. The lullaby is the gas hiss again. Drip.
I don't suppose I'll ever understand why I held
heaven. Like a fool slipped, she cool loved me
into this. I know if you're wondering though,
night, and away stumbling to what, and taking
sunshine from my world I'm shining at. She
quite the girl really loved and gave up from my
world. Oh I'm so home all I do is roll the street,
eat a delicious bite, it's homesick bread, and
something old's whipped up and spread on.
David Bartone has some poems in or coming at Handsome, Denver Quarterly, Thermos, The Laurel Review, Apt, Sixth Finch, and others. A chapbook of poems, Spring Logic, is forthcoming from H_NGM_N. A case study, in collaboration with Jeff Downey, is in Route 9.