Hold the Slurry

don’t expect this poem
to be shaped

like a wild turkey
(bottle) or mannequin

torso or Grecian urn
or giraffe skull

or dancer in repose
gently worrying

an idea’s spikes
into flapper dress beads

the color blue
as it runs backwards

an ancient Icelandic birch
tree untangled

from the myth
surrounding its demise

a late winter morning
forced to conceal a capsule

filled with
all my past love

a rockhopper penguin
as it rides the wave to the cliff

a grotto where I’ve hidden
all that I wish for you

and this plea
for it not to flood

during the next thunder
graupel storm

or the muffled
sound itself

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