Galle(r)y
Tom Oristaglio

     

and there are beautiful images
but no unmarked backs,
no smile that can't be bisected like fruit,

blank canvas, blank verse,
and
commentary
all strung out like concertina wire
along the well worn paths of cheap, contemplative

pauses

and I,
denuded in the snare
of this madrigal
made trap,
                                      all I see
                                                                    is women crammed into feet,

the
noose of new words
and
bifurcated hooves,
                                                          sad sheep leaching the soil.

 

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