TERRI BENEDETTO
(She told me I should live forever)
Some man I have not seen in weeks
is plowing his steady field, trailing his
luggage of sound. It is but a heartfelt
tumble from slopfest to ground, threading
those things in the pigsty through their
needle of animal wants. Were I to
gaily amble, a crowd would rise to
the surface - one hundred faces on a
dewy, smoked glass - yet no one I'd
want to see nor any with a purpose.
This slipcase of manner and want of art
and all its circumference is now somehow
too scant to hold in the broad field
my mind would encompass.
(She told me I should live forever)
Some man I have not seen in weeks
is plowing his steady field, trailing his
luggage of sound. It is but a heartfelt
tumble from slopfest to ground, threading
those things in the pigsty through their
needle of animal wants. Were I to
gaily amble, a crowd would rise to
the surface - one hundred faces on a
dewy, smoked glass - yet no one I'd
want to see nor any with a purpose.
This slipcase of manner and want of art
and all its circumference is now somehow
too scant to hold in the broad field
my mind would encompass.
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