Umbriate Press Poetry

I submit to nonchalance,

Fault of the anti-poetic prose poetry

Of the sapphophilic Anne Carson:

A burning trouble with morale,

The lilting voice now ringing in

My head after spending an afternoon

Eyes moored to tragedy made pretty

Flower, hoeing weed-fest of dizziness.

I never thought reading could actually be done

With words till hers brutally affronted my

Sense and discontinuity. I bow slightly,

Admiring the idea of surrender without

The slavery it so often needs to imply.