Tony Towle

(1939 / New York City / United States)

Little


a. by degrees
Which gives it over to our raging orders.

In the ground, planted,
my hands on you;
it was a time for it.

The waves turn out ashamed,
the voice but thought at the bus track,
in the ground, cool,
all of which I know.

To the alkali my oldest son is lost,
in the assault of fresh grass,
with the turn of a flower,
as our cousins by their tables,
the petals fallen on the seat.

We too are on the porch near the ground,
urged to follow closely
the red of the afternoon.

b. qualities
I will continue with your flower tight
in your hand, the deep slits
almost to center, a light breath
on the sound of the kettle, a thunder,
thunder, shells, the shaggy rangers
patrol the brush under the trees.
Something scuttles to the sea;
havoc is among our tables.

Our tables were styled near the ground,
arms folded, assisting a death
of surprise in the public treasure.

c. as love
We picked nails for the yard.
Salt. The towns of the river;
we pick at flowers as builders;
they are stealthy and have become more subtle.

So all laughed and provoked us to scrutiny.
The earth is chained and
will last for twelve years.

Submitted: Friday, August 08, 2014
Edited: Friday, August 08, 2014

Form:


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