Another new poem for The Wallace Variations.
Wally Draws Real Gulls in an Empty Sky
i walk with Wally & the dogs
down to the shore. On the way he
was all pipperoo, pippera, pipperum.
i asked the meaning of this, each word
(a neologism?) inflected, before
dropping into plosive starts— he shrugged,
pulled a face, dramatizing his shrug.
Much of the wind about
& clouds like bracketed prose
from which all sound issued
the largess of itself. He took
a pencil from his inside pocket
& waved it like a wand, lines drawn
he said let gulls with the faces of famous
men, in our likeness, but other,
throng like the rattle of dead sticks,
like things we have no name for,
yet know with the instinct.
& gulls appeared, like tuning forks,
populated all aspects & yet
remained, very much, gulls; perhaps
slightly pixelated, but that may
have been the effect of distances on
the eye— whether they had
the faces of famous men
i could not tell, they flew at such
exceptional heights, only imagining
could fill the gaps
the mind misplaced.