Marginalia and Aisle


My marginalia's sentimental and fey,

Gypsy-spelt, and dagger'd to

Improbable rows of ibids, exclamatory,

Amateur, scorn'd. Addressed to you

Out there, fiddler and deft

Almanacker of the elegiac gone.

Oh the ache and sustenance

Of ache, what makes th'hearty

Soprano's satin'd nipples stiffen up

To buttons mid-aria, admitting

The clamor and succor of

Lack. It's lack th'octagonal stick

Of the mad-saw'd violin

Hides, a pernambuco beaut' with

Silver-mount'd ebony frog, avowedly

Invisible here in the aisle.




Xylophone and Dunce


Turn a rub-color'd eye,

'Such a waggish leering it

Works in all your horribles.'

Nigh is th'impenetrable buckler of

'Insolency Rote and snarlish,' wrought

Butt of cheer-raked quarrel,

In 'formall noddy' to puffery

Careerist. Oh the drear of

My dissemblance bangs a murtherous

Xylophone, 'theen I besseche thee.'

You in the baffle-hat

And plush fatigues, tired of

Pulling th'impartial rabbit out, that

Nutmeg-ear'd one. Blake, Wm.:

'I am hid.' Dunce of

Bliss unsung, idiot of rose.




Architecture and Mouth


Carnal bridges offer one out,

A satisfying architecture, humping up

To the prospect, semi-wild,

Of looking down. Green stalks

Green to recoup continual greening,

Stalks a fat weed-wrack'd

Mouth to burble out dark

Arpeggios of gaping predatory loss.

Loss that eats loss—sex-

Slung feasibles of hungry intent.

So sound errs to lend

Repetition its holy score: I

Rinse myself of any too-

Godly freight, and fail to

Hush my own heart's blood

That down unbent flowers flows.




Jetty and Yellowlegs


Stellar brooding in the brine-

Lanes. World call'd 'a Bote,

Toss'd it is, over &

Onto' troublous nethery foregone waves.

Dogging the jetty it is.

Devotee of the trawler-dump,

Cur of the opalescent trough

Askitter. Up-down amongst fisher-

Folk, a dean of disjumble.

Oh the doubleness does sur-

Round us & meeter be

It to name than to

Abode the doughty spits of

Cloudwork brandishing th'ycleptic where two

Lesser yellowlegs lift off two-

Noted, he sd, you, you.


John Latta's first collection, Rubbing Torsos, appeared in 1979 (Ithaca House). A new collection, Breeze, winner of the 2003 Ernest Sandeen Prize in Poetry, was published in 2002 by the University of Notre Dame Press. Other recent poems are in or forthcoming in The Germ, Leviathan Quarterly, Southwest Review, Verse, Crowd, LIT, Black Warrior Review, and elsewhere.