tom taylor

intermittent signaling

a sentence with parts missing, like the chicken
in the meat rack, a red label on the plastic, read
this between stoppages and wonder what was
lost in the translation from doubt to pleasure

like a season in your mists with blue glaze on
the plant stamens and pistils radioactive glows
at the horizon’s fusion with the sun ball rising
through the giant frogs with little to say about

your land rover stuck in the mud of desire by
no hand but your own as if there were directions
printed on the palm up or down the same news
is not disappointing but slim and somehow deadly