Fissure Poem by Luke J. Holt

split the sea
part this maw agape and stuff in its moss-green jaws a soapy garland
to heal a starchy wound in a gut pumped with powderform smiles
in the anti-septic theater the spinner of gimmicks hold court in shade,
fleeing the crushed-rose billow of curtains.
in rejection, retreat, enamored relinquish
on starry white sails in a cracked, tan ocean.
a pelt of hairy tears i did promise,
a belt of coarse ropes i did weave,
a dry thief in a soaking palace i built but do not own.

i am sixty issues north of the last green fuzz,
muzzle this drear, O, pinions!
make my name a mantra for at least one
and have her sing it and dream it in nervous quiet
until, asunder, her drowsy stage collapse
and from a dollish, concave noggin leaks four pied, gassy letters
foaming like shaving cream syntax.
i attended the snickering funeral of Winter
i swung a flail at its pine box (filled with three pale calender sheets)
the spring peered from hiding
the summer licked her lips and readied her colors
the autumn began to tape her wrists for war

and a fissure formed