Ceslovas Cesnakevicius
By
Stephen Mead
Trout Thursday
Rain, a throat closing over.
Jonquils in this kitchen
fan out against the pool.
It’s feast or famine, nature’s
gate. One side of the globe,
the house, draws on soaked shrouds.
Here we light cigarettes to read
each other by the red glow.
Smoke spills across amber.
The petals, as if trout,
let scents swim, school,
a mild field of force…
Thursday the newspaper wraps
them up in a wastebasket,
names, charcoal features,
smudging gold.
I write about it as if slicing an onion.
On mundane paper, I’m an adventurer.
Overhead, gurgling rain, mouths move
across the world.
Zoos Of The Apocalypse
Skateboarding across all the ran sackers left;
giraffe necks, whale tails, some peacock’s plume;
a jackal appears, somersaults then coasts,
flippant, into an old toppled rain tower.
Together we start a rink, a couple of museum
pieces selling extinction like a pelt.
Business has been rather slow this year.
Except for a few regulars, the chicken-legged
ocelot and okra-bellied anteater
now subsisting on canned spam, there isn’t
too much interest in such curiosity shop trends.
We make ends meet by splicing them. Pray
the grafts hold, put up a sign; Gone Fishing.
The joke’s pretty stale, this carrion on its spit;
what’s rotten in Denmark is the stench of
the whole globe.
Are we cherishing flesh then or milking sanctity
like a resource whose use lies in fire, the dead
man’s bluff when the sun’s yolk has been devilled
and the moon is a cyst since leprosy pocked everyone
into some kind of hybrid?
Never mind, never mind.
Now that we’re the same race
it’s hard to tell just who is the fittest.
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