first the trees, now this
shapes of leaves are trying to tell me
something different than strata of latin
or what might make me itch. they are
stanzas to walk around in. the ovals send
rumors over opposite walls. darker yellows
seek wax. others – the sweet tones of a ’38
epiphone acoustic guitar, scroll cutouts.
i notice close by, apertures film over:
trace memory or the kind of joy saved
for bigger days. later, walnuts get antsy
waiting to be pulverized. my youngest
slips from her shy rendezvous, from shade
under the trampoline, beams at her older
sister: smell my face, i smell like boy.
(from Gigantic Sequins 3.1)
Ken Taylor lives in North Carolina. His poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Hambone, VOLT, The Offending Adam, 3:AM Magazine, Verse Daily, elimae, EOAGH, MiPOesias,The Chattahoochee Review, Southword, The Carolina Quarterly, Gigantic Sequins, Clade Song and others. His chapbook first the trees, now this is forthcoming from Three Count Pour.