Richard Greenfield


 


Artificial

 

There is poison inside of the tattered weed

& the trash in the roadside ditch,

generic birdmusic sourceless

(where?) I think in the brush the wet frogs

throat more of the same

with less derivation, rain,

the asphalt beading oil, the washoff

moaning through a metal culvert;

I’ll stop awhile and splurge;

plumes of dill ululate in the 

sodium green breeze, the sidereal consumption

that void, the sky; do not defer from it,

expend into it; I hear a faint frequency

in the clouds, near the speakers and

the hanging panels of a false ceiling,

the noise is barely background,

un-tapped desire is encoded there,

all of the hype swallowed and gagged,

it costs too much

& my resource is too small in the

spasming sumac bending,

where the unseen source of music

plays and I let go finding it;





© 2008 Electronic Poetry Review