Dean Young


Name Spelled in Crocus, Name Spelled in Dawns

Anything can be called morning
yet there is always a portal of smoke.
I found that in my handwriting weeks ago
and still don't know what it means.
When you're made of sunlight,
a cloud can kill you.
Stuff like that.
Sometimes it's just a dollar bill
gone through the dryer
or an old likst in a jacket
makes the whole composite arboretum appear
but not this time.
I just had a relatively sensible conversation
with a friend about her dog.
The dog wasn't as sick as everyone supposed.
Because words are only made meaningful,
a student wrote about Tristam Shandy,
by emergent, constantly-defered context
always yet to appear,
we can never know nothing
(like I was born 3 seconds ago)
for 37 pages
but she's just asking for it.
Reckless I wander the lingerie department.
Reckless my blood type.
Sometimes a mouth full of nectar,
sometimes alkaloids
but I do go on.
Used to think there were only two things
we could never understand:
what happens when you die
and what happens when you fall in love
but in each case it looks like something charred
hammered until it's all minnows.
Thereby I, Dean Hayward Young, scion
of leafy glee and blitzed derision
take up this torch.
If you need an explanation,
go to the DMV or a cardiologist.
If you want cake or colorful threads
or moving boxes,
you must follow me back into the world
which doesn't hate us
no matter how matter acts.

© 2008 Electronic Poetry Review