Kevin Larimer

USA Waste of New York City

Considered the window of an eventual day
openly closed in the industrial peek-a-boo

there are holes where before there were no
              roses. Expanse of the resolute anvil, shine.

I'm fine.

Neither levity nor brevity
mister you to me will be

the requisite multitude.

Walk asphalt, and as for faults
contractual allies sit council      and antagonize.

Where are the bodies I love?
Bend of river, crook of tree.

Lonely is only as good
as long as longest night
gives way to shorter day.

The garbage truck
nudges corners and away

along the impossible boulevard.


© 2003 Electronic Poetry Review