somebody’s stone cap
reached my hill
cap over the mill
in coney island
a common gem
very hard
still just a pebble
from the testicle stem
a stone’s throw away
from
an antique store
they did not let me in
hey
made in stone they had already turned
every stone around
flint stone
cling stone
cobble stone
gem stone
grave stone
coney island peach
cap stone at the aquarium –
a climate leader, then
long ago:
i had to leave the theater
the mate rates
luckily i wore red satin gloves
&
a black maria helped me out
the fox glove
Genus Digitalis
thereof
rock dove love
between two streams
i was caught in a dutch wave pool
on the south tip of a dream shot
water broil – kind of cool
no antimicrobial resistance i
but
when i drooled into the water
my coat did not get wet
hey, musette sobrique
i said:
you are no empress among novelists
and woke up to dream again
of
marchers in Mendeley
protecting Mr Stone
&
the mutations’ process of
hemline, baseline, felines
asinine
i went back to bed to collect more cultural information
to not peddle fantasies but
cinnamon & peddler pebbles’ stations
here near, nearer, close
short distance everywhere
stone age
palpation … no
digital palpation
a beginning of close
little toe in the mouth
lock in
& lingering prose
to bring to an end ” close ranks”
the clear dependency on word suicide
the love bombing were no move is lost
or Tove Ditlevson
who could not be a poet stout
calling herself under one ( hypó hén )
while being a close shave
playing the shyster
to call in the harvesters
let’s justle foreward now
forced to justle in a crowd
of five within the love of three
—Martina Gertrude Siebert
