Patterns of Movement
Michael Bagwell


I can only believe in the holy spirit
if there are enough ruins nearby and the sheepsounds
of our feelings lie down with the clouds.
Even the grass in Scotland knows enough
to stare at the sky.

On my signal, assume the recovery position
and say don’t you don’t you leave me here

with these people.
When my check engine light goes on,
I’ll be back in a classroom
surrounded by dark matter
and the cut’n’paste grand canyon.

Meanwhile, shark killing = everyone
is feeling all alone. This is new to me.

The ocean is a movement of thousands of torsos of limbs
and open mouths and most of them are Akira Kurosawa
or Raul Zurita because they are the ones dreaming it.
The subtitles only say “the clouds…”

This is a podium, I believe.
Hello sky, is this thing on?
Say potato.
Say sibilant.
Say we’re either going to leave
or smash up the place
and try to say it with that ebullient
aging-neo-nazi accent
we found in Edinburgh.
Say all poems are not good poems
and it is okay for a poem to wrap itself
in its not-goodness
and just hold still for a while.

 

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