Monday, April 3, 2017

Two Octets from a Monday

Unsettled Monday Octet

they tell me I’ll wake up some morning not cold—
I no longer buy their words; one crow calling,

from a cedar I’d like to think, as this sky
scrambles gray & white & blue without any

chance of a caress from the maple’s fingers;
the roofs have no names, the windows no prospects,

wall heater sighs like a freight train lost in rain:
the crow is speaking in invisible ink


Monday Epistemological Octet

the truth comes out: what you’re seeing isn’t real;
what’s unseen is likewise unreal—an airplane

aloft descending through a major scale, that
guitar on the sofa just out of sunlight,

the monstera vine traversing a table,
one black bag so very empty on a chair,

unfolded gold foil chocolate bar wrapper;
piano chords that die inside black speakers

Jack Hayes
© 2017

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