JOYELLE McSWEENEY

Concordia

Escarpment; ditch; town; champagne; dimity;
the sailor, drown or no, was probably lost to them.

They fell asleep again and died like saints,
having demonstrated the physical properties,

soup to nuts. Meanwhile, from the upset agency,
a guide de mise en march.

*
Our hero's very good at new-to-the-world,
but not so good at new-and-improved. Each butt
of lightning sticks in the sky with its belly thrust

out over the model-train set or puppet stage
we live in, goblin page. Where's destiny in it?
Assigning fake names to the flowers: half-cousin, cops.

A reaphook's a scythe,
a firkin's a small cask, a seedlip's a basket
from which seeds are broadcast. A pattern

's a kind of oversole. To raise
the ordinary out of mud or wet.
Leading the foot by leather strap.

*
What a quag it'd get me out of!
Leaves fall, reveal the treehouse.
People change like leaves at the fair.
Good for the bulk as it is for the sample.
Something curdles on purpose and is gone.

*
Soi disant, so distant, brocade-roll. The selvage sun
into the gemmy green of the wastefield dives.

Dive, o dive, into verdure, odor, Fat Morgana;
I lean over the gleaming sinks and floss-packets,

gobbled, assoluta, into glory, leaping the wall.