Home, how deep a spell
that word contains. Slow grows
the day when you’ve built upon
stone. Foresight and caution
have led us here.
If music is prophecy,
a study of harmony in numbers
should tell us what notes
the dawn holds in store.
As the acorn denotes poverty,
to dream of sparrows indicates
And so the juggler raises
his left hand. Harlequin is Har.
How far this candle has shown the beams.
Put stock in the value of not knowing.
The cuts on my knuckles remember the evenings
of their births.
The way these rats piss is a cheap song.
I can’t trust the mirrors, the night schisms,
the lost sonatas.
I’m afraid of where this new language is going,
but am willing to see it out, provided I can keep
my sidearm afterwards.
New Measure Of An Old Idea
If I were to spend time investigating all
the noises, I would never get my hunting done.
The trick is to do as little as possible,
but quitting will kill you.
Listen to the heat and tell me
no one is on the verge of tears.
Hands that go this way
will always meet resistance.
Oh, the roses have cut another child.
Shaggy Dad’s Midnight Meditation
Sexy as sin, I navigate the boulevards,
issuing moths and charcoal to lovers and school children.
I sharpen my knives in well-lit cafés,
and drink half-carafes of red wine
beside brown rivers.
My violin is welcome in every Hooverville.
People walk miles for me
to remove glass from their feet.
Bird interpreters and root doctors bow to me.
My flaming shadow is the currency of rain.
Whit Griffin currently lives in Scaly Mountain, NC. He has work forthcoming in First Intensity. His
first book-length collection, Dutch Courage, has yet to find a home.