John Latta



Raw, inconceivable and tetch’d, I

Feed time its own rhythms

Cook’d down to palatable mush.

Art becomes moral only by

Concealing its implacable maker’s consumable

Grief in a rage of

Control, any sonnet sounding itself

To make itself, and all

Else vestigial, gaunt, left behind.

Against analysis the distilling, against

History the grudge of language:

Unreadable grass of lawns, cold

Rivers, the querulous curse of

The unfaith’d marriage of word

To bird, and rocks lit

Up by a ravaging sun.

© 2008 Electronic Poetry Review