Anachronistically Yrs


Mine say mine to say something.
Or sleepstow this mention between us.

How over yestoyears description dies
& gropes are throes are touchlines put

to trace as some sweigh-bridge.
Sway–the body’s mixplaced satisflictions

for which all doing is banquet.
The craved of thus as done;

the hands of soothes come true.
Love this anachronistically yrs

tipped to lips as sipped
is hail to one’s heat, & means

being. Means
makes warm sheets

‘twixt which are still
wantknots, ah vowels, 
 
rives letter-built between which
between which we bade un-

––be knownst!

 

 

Version’s Verge


If nothing I do does & nothing I am say,
whatever you will in the inter-uhmm,
mercies to furies want to be enough
& fall short, furies to mercies.
So our loudship, readypresent, masses
where love is night-&-a-half remembered
& folded in, de-realized as though
a name had been called,
folded again into this kisshand.
Do we care to call it a bless?
To have what back?
Carry forward.  Portion this mortal
dabble, this should-hurry of the waist.
Fall from the wartower, your highsleep.
Pretend to be habited.  As the grateful,
take your body & go. 
Or mine,
            mindful of our matters made.

 

 

 

After Cy Twombly

 

                                                                  Allover at and elsewhere throughout,

                                              restinguished loop-spoof,        doodle. 

 

                          Ambigracefull smudge. 

 

                So many                                  solittle

                                                                                               hencilwork
offshouts.

               Sketch-abide      skin-elide     sin-aside  
                                                                           mot(ifs).

 

                         Smeary sometime sprangflowers.                        Hierantic tracery

                                                     & abc-alloons.

                                                               To this anyheld here––

                                                                                             anI’mism     gone ga-
ga



Variations from Inside an Hour Glass

Am I soft sift?
Am . . . fists of it?
If I fast most––
atoms’ tiffs? I
omit fasts, if

a moist stiff;
if’s fast omit,
its fit of am
is fast motif.
I am soft sift.


Morgan Lucas Schuldt is the author of Verge (Parlor Press: Free Verse Editions, forthcoming fall, 2007) and Otherhow (Kitchen Press, forthcoming spring, 2007), a chapbook.  His work has appeared most recently in Verse, LIT, Diagram, Typo and Shampoo.  Currently Morgan studies at the University of Arizona where he edits CUE: A Journal of Prose Poetry.