Poem a Day/ April 16th, 2012 – Scott Riley Irvine


The whales have impaled themselves

on the harpoons. Distressed

with what can’t be imagined,

what shouldn’t be delayed.

Blame our melatonin.

Blame the wasted time

I see in place of my mother.


The shade beguiles,

and you have only half as many lovers.

I’ve asked that you say something nice.

Please tell me that I can still be

any old wooden post on an American boardwalk,

tied at the neck with a carnival bell.


Everything is uncommon

and it can all be tunneled beneath.

But fun is a standard of value

for which we can offer no precedence.

I imagine it as lifting your ankle.

Loosening your wrist.

Large cords of wood,

empty observatories.


Curl your back in a way

that we will know

you are sleeping.


Cling to the roots as they

float further away.

The soil around them will appear

damp and trodden.


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