Calender

 
And then I saw myself still hanging on
a word – the tiniest speck of expectation
seemed to had been worn dull – but I was waiting
for avian verbs to come like spring-risen
germs on beds in mouths of Germinal
months – reverie, revulsion, both scrambled
at random within old fields of palimpsests.
 
“Slack Vlach don’t flap,” the scar-ridden lines read
“the time a tree will grow from father’s tongue,”
which made me dizzy – phrases felt as if jammed
in the messy door of a calendar, come June
I mumbled in a jejune voice and I
will join the humble sect of next text reading
nights I try to follow as I swing
and roll around their silence: