Maw
What
is it the colossal
swaying bustle of green bodes
from beneath that lumping of cloud
On the retreat, within, something quavers
the mouth of nature coagulated
rough blocks of paint obtrude,
blinder any swipe at serene, assert the superficiality
of the seen.
Or the fact every leaf quivers
around raucous shadows
the colour intimating a snugger darkness
Still it is a time for celebration, a feting forward
to be blocked back by polyps of the medium
Sources vying
for the materials
that make me
My iron, or the keratin of my nails, this general animation,
these giant plants thirsting after my nutrients
The content inundating the room, while the artist,
is back there, roomed cheaply within those opacities
Winds
The leaves flapping so
out of synch; harmony
of disordered
dance
one spins manically,
the wood itself sways,
giving a general
motion to the many moves
another
level of harmony to
the
harmonious.
Josh Massey
lives in Nelson, British Columbia. A poet, fiction writer, journalist
and college instructor, he has
work published in The
Capilano Review, subTerrain, Rampike, Misery Tourism, Event, Filling Station, The Tyee, Anxiety Press, .ergot,
The Minnesota Review, Open Book Toronto, SurVision, etc. His
two published novels are We Will All
Be Trees (Conundrum, 2009) and The
Plotline Bomber of Innisfree (Book*Hug, 2015).