Tom Taylor

LESS EDGE, NOT MERE

advised dissent which went before unseemly debt
on the honker the dissonant recall of unmanageable thoughts
I’m not plenty or further than the taste of metal on your crops
depleted or just ensconced on the wall on a small metal tray
hoops the air beside her best leasing kisses made you what
you are today, or the inert enlivened by what follows out

or had you any sense at all? these are the wooden arrows
stuck in the floor against your knees and feet and arms
where they encroach onto the incoming tides are stretched
into nothing new on the aisles of your own thoughts racked
and stretched as if good as if good where’s the bit plenty hears
your knockers naming the plein air mood still descending now
and then the rockets subside into their own, uh, location from

which speaks right to it, clutters the hegemony with more doubt.
you could say rammin the bone or even bonin the ram but not both
in a sensational retention of the absolute is not recognized but held
in hands and arms with distant recluse and fathom, though heard
so it’s all right from here, all right in the distances through which
we travail in the dark through into the light following at noon