Fall 2017 (Volume 21, Issue I)
JOHN F. BUCKLEY
OF COURSE, YOU CAN’T ACCEPT THIS APOLOGY, EITHER
If I were an earnest man, I would hold
you above my head in the inundated
sunlight, I would lift you
toward the crenellations
of a vast canon, at least out
of the moat and into
a coracle filled with salmon
and hideously wise anglers, but
the pressure in my gut threatens
to burst from the strain, so we stay
soppy together, passing gas and time
and poorly handrolled cigarettes, two
saltines almost afloat in a potage
of inappropriate spices and vivid
pimentos, unsafe crackers baffled
by even the simplest locks of hair, the curl
of a finger, the slippery yoke of blue oxen.
Somewhere a hermit casts runes in the desert.
Somewhere an eagle flies business class,
launch codes secure in its talons.
Somewhere the populace, prudent enough
to be daunted, sandbags the banks, and none
of my ensuing nonsense would pass.