Caper's Poets

Coryphaeus — Jim Benz


I. A fiery wheel or a dove


I was puzzling. Heroic.

And a barstool.

I was not a throne.


You were both tide and landfall.

A splash of brine.


We were an olive


swallowed, inarticulate

wildly mundane

and not too laconic.


You were conceived in tandem.


We breathed I am, I am not,

breath after breath

in the wardrobe.


I ate silage.

You ate corn out of season.

We wanted to be layered.


They found intricate displays

in your footnotes.


We have our seasons.



II. The dark uncanny


You flew down the staircase.


How dirt stains the carpet.

How there are too many linens.


They need a confession.



III. We are method


Your toe is a pencil.

It traces the hollow of reason.


Layers and layers

of heart beat and reason.


These are shadows.


Shadows are not method

and we are not echoes.

We lean toward the sun.


They ask us to be pleasure.



IV. Shaped and reshaped


What do they make

of our chorus.


We are translucent

and sorrow.



V. Somewhere in habit


You exhale. There are no syllables

caught in your teeth.


We are lonely. Your clock

is unwound. We eat the undercooked meat

that they serve us. It has delays.


You were avoiding the spoon

on your saucer. It is on your lips.

It is a measure of moments.


I cannot elaborate.

The saucer was only contrivance.



VI. A sort of coma


What do we void

if we count minute by minute

what is void


is retention. What do we count.


The minutes, the echoes.

Let me think.


They want me to think

in a chorus.



VII. Wildly mundane


About linens.


Their linens hang in a wardrobe

but the wardrobe is barren.

Its dimensions

are not what we hoped for.


Layers and layers

of footnotes and silage.


They want a confession.


They did not expect

the clock to be chiming.


The hours have been sprung

from its gears.

We do not comprehend


how they fold time into echoes.

We are submerged.


It is not what we hoped for.



VIII. Not a chorus


These tides


do not crest when the moon

falls from orbit.


They only sing softly


into night

for no reason.


We are not singing.



IX. A tin cup


This is an echo.


Every shade of intent

is a heart beat.


We are not method.

Not of syllables


and these

are not words.


We have seasons.


Filed under: Issue 3, Jim Benz,

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