for Raymond Queneau
One:
Or only one after the other?
Us,
a virgin was in fact the
mother of the Christ,
voyaging out altogether
recently while staying.
Rivers (I’ve seen some
rivers in foreign
countries) of time
because the world was
full of men at
sundown predisposed
to something of
character.
I recognized a woman
by the softness of
her lips, into a
barborous patois-
remove- return home
for the disheveled
embraces, drinking,
everyone and the
earth like us and
whose face happened
to be on a level
with ours.
Listen to you. It
got late, I watch
the caterpillars.
Two:
I thought about numbers
a great deal- the
memories each one
before she could move.
It reduces me to tears
quicker than anything
else in time.
Referred to as his
aquarium- a bedroom-
though to cleave the
very constellations
there was nothing to
stop me from constantly
being unpleasant:
under return in three
days.
Roar with laughter
because elicit information
from events would unfold
in the workmen’s peaceful-
purporting to have met me
at some function or
another- original of
these adventures take
place at night,
truth to what we’ve
heard?
A terrain with the act
in which a body
exceeds.
Note: this poem was created in response to a prompt at dVerse- Poets Pub
Matt's Potential Poetry Blog 