Clade Song 2

trying to kill a fruit fly on my keyboard, i wrote:

all we like sheep have gone astray. i took this as

a sign the fruit fly was sent to validate why they

accused me in alabama – tallassee funeral home,

cold mamaw on display: you done lost the brogue.

maybe that’s how all those robins fell on my lawn.

i’m speaking in a tongue bound to get me in loads

of trouble. lost the passage i mean, not the other.

still, scripture tries to worry me: a spooky head

to step on to keep me in bed. or rust scraped

on my toast for more iron. but this is my captain

speaking. might’ve been nuptial flight of a queen,

not rough square root of laboratory me. or some

cropped luster: not oracle. not apostle. not ghost.

in case of fire, spill or release

news hour

Ken Taylor 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 and others. His chapbook first the trees, now this is forthcoming from Three Count Pour.