Just Like Poor Tom's Hair

Jared Stanley


(from Book Made of Forest)


Arcadia

you have a moon

that you are made of

 

moon grey

and copse-color

a far gauze

            lunaire, lunaire

motley with skin gleams

mere in its shitfulness

 

like Poor Tom's hair

a bric-a-brac attempt

a glint

 

to hide or rest

in the undergrowth

 

White flag or heal-all,

you send me

kisses made of no

 

because I'm made of money

and don't care what the night is for

in the capacious branch shadows.

 

A figured owl in the teeth

of mama nature's last laugh.

 

Moon,

you can't win.

You're wallpaper,

a head on the ramparts,

or a compass of hinges

in a city's sky.

 

Free, free, free—

we are made of fire

and you are

made of cheese.