Poemed

sky-blue-prison

prism of spin-back-earth

for fall is the time of damn-dappled,

of drab-drama-ed, of never-liked

the-stubble-field-so-much-as-now

(and soon a roethke-complicated wait-light)

but now, now:

the yellow apples: appley,

crook’d, under the little-

armed tree 

as yet un(h)armed by

the loud-littering clouds

slack-backing (back-slacking, slack-sailing) into town

ordered a new cerement

on-line

you look fine, fine! i said-said

to myself

then, like stephan trofimovitch,

i made myself busy:

luckily, all the main characters

lived in my orange house

from room to room then!

corona, corona, i dylaned

as i made my chair, my desk, my bed

i sang (to myself, the most complex of all!)

where-you-been-so-long?

“did you make it love you can hear her”

someone not me wrote to a phone