Eddie Watkins

 

 

 

Hollow Thorn

 

Plod through dew

Nannies thrash the penguin

Meaning bloodhounds. Someone

Shoveled a tonsil

 

Island, a shapely igloo. We of the waves

 

As per woven fish

Organize the sound up on poles.

Weather props the garage door open

 

A pollutant. A rack of canoes

Astride a blue popsicle

I hear the walking in my legs

For I understand the toe

 

Sly gill that survives the drought.

Soft shell crabs hem in our calm.

 

 

 

 

Pre-Holiday Buzz

 

In an ambulance at the ready on the beach an origami hatbox classifies butterflies

 

 

 

 

Carry Granite

 

Hilarity aggravates the decathlon

asking aggravated knitters to snipe

at the muscled hamburgers

the like of "Quails intrigue my soda." Purple

lachrymose skinny-dippers gargle

a shiny paste thinned with aqua velva,

yet the seamstress (recently napping)

continues to ponder clouds upon clouds

ranged softly and spasmodically upon

our jettisoned innocence

 

Upon the blankness (bare feet

slapping baked asphalt); or, powered

by spasmodic gargles (battery-powered fossils),

Hercules wakes up beneath my cotton

to stage a recrudescence of hilarity and triceps.

Sleeping is the stage

for the blankness that we swim within, and nakedness

stirs up mouths we never live without

to stitch a path of garbled bright

like a chipped tooth tight-roping a whippoorwill.