Erica T. Carter - 6 Poems

Cancelled


A thought
A tomb
A race

Cancelling dark
Complaining
Remembering vengeance
Horrid mountains and nigh letters

Cherubic pains and sequestered measures
Solitary flowers and sequestered forests
Honorable audiences and zealous sounds
Zealous afternoons and honorable phrases



||||||



Pale coursers and mild values


A kind of nation
A kind of racecourse
A sort of estate

It and you remember
numberless values between you
This courser is too native to have
seen poetry

These holler
It is
It's not a ground,
it's a name

With mildest poetry it proves a feather

Be with the best sky of the
step
Abide with the narrowest
value of the wind
In early spring it packs you
It is quite pale; the childish
sky starves its
plush
It recognizes its
delight, living made into love



||||||



Lonely keepsakes and famous instants


In most zealous sunshine they set
industriousness and indifference
These things drip

There is time to
drink the blind that they
harrow
This is what it is to be
awful

Here is a
cave, a wind, a
seam, wizard-fingers for a brain
What if they should push sometime?
They might taste themselves
Corn bows in their
dying lap
They spring for bitterness



||||||



Of poise


A sort of pain

Like insolvent ecstasies
Between this bale and that bale
Lip partakes in in your little
passion
The flights wonder
as if they shut
them
In poise you thread a parlor,
bowing across their tick, poor
from traffic

It is your burning that thinks,
the daily seeming and living
You grow perfect



||||||



A kind of country


Rolling a dead easy country from
above unknown blue soil

Now that keys are close, he has
keys in his
drowsiness, like a cup



||||||



Vermilion


Could it have been a maple?

Already the felt eyes imported
in the mist, a kind
of caravan
Its sepia manners
stand and wait
It had one
enterprise, it had many

It had no civilities
What can the breast do without
arm to develop?
It was constant

Saved thing in mean foot,
where halves came
Go whenever it left itself in
the morning
The pearls fell
as if they prayed it

In want it gave a
blast, stooping through
its floor, magic from vermilion
It smelled its psyche sauntering from sky
to sky
It was vermillian
A lavender moss of april
lent it smart menageries from the
poet of the
cricket
It does not
want a silence, it wants a work

That was the wandering's coming
Already it can have watched
laughter, its green plush
Idleness is so forbidden it lived
it
Here it was, a fleet
sir in a
wandering
It who humped its ether like a
dedicated wandering



||||||