Wednesday, May 17, 2017

Slander by Franz Wright

I can just hear them
on the telephone and keening
all their kissy little knives
or voraciously taking turns
nursing a lie
still in its early white whisperhood
and I could do something
bad back to them
someday, I guess—
but why
Exclusion doesn’t hurt
that much, in fact
I’ve visited the stars on foot
Come disdain of the dreamhand for grammar
and fame, this Boston’s
gothic chilly April
night (new leaves the color
of her eyes) beloved
booknight real
real world, oh
prasini arachnid
Light green eyes dusk distant
tolling now fading
to heartscar
which says
I was loved, always
And then they wounded me
so usefully—


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