This January

a poem by Roger B Rueda

Torpedo, goose, crow, what can the foliage,

lock stock and barrel,

cry to my toes, squishy earth,

a glueyness underneath slippers?

Studded with spines

and affectionate

upsurges of grass masticated by goats,

what can wickers, that smooth,

those points, furry

exteriors and rims,

and the embrasures, the yielding

brittleness and obstinacy of intolerance,

the resilient,

ridged blossoms of fire tree,

of umbrella tree,

chilly brunts of rain,

sun flashing, edifice shade, tree

shadow, or cloud,

warmth revolutionises,

what can they shout to a body

encrusted this cold month?

By next week I inhale

ragweed substantial as words

and would give it a flush, whatever

tint is, not a hint of your metaphors roll.

Wind, such as, thickens the star apples.

Evidently there are fowls, one

every morning sounds

that odd gooey weight in a palm.

A sparrow making its home

is a maya. And wool chemise

return, or silk at a premium, but I fancy

denim, eyebrows, the terrain

and resonance of salutation,

the way of walking,

all tempos, none the same.

Without even knowing

how to tell you, I listen in;

I have constantly listened. Any spell,

a mile is in front of or outlying

as an hour, like stillness

or hours of darkness that in no way

relatively arrives.

I read about pin-ups as nonvocal come-on.

Skin is hilarity, the meaning and gauge

that clings to me and by no means dozes.