JESS GROVER


CAPTIOUS CANAVERAL

Spaded by cyclical light, avocado, the dishwasher’s laminate epiphyte
            grove beside blue
            suppurating hair, fulsome
American frisson
friezes on, there are more
helium filled surgical picks, aloft, giddy as the piggly spigot
blandishing river water,
undo his laces where the ammunition should be
the flower-box scissors over its bee board;
She looks at a litho the
size of the litho –

pars of,
            grease-pall and vanity
airfield, waxy ice flippering
down, upon hullish
hangar; in putting still invisible circumlocuted breeze the
                        pebble dislodged from the tire, bloodying his knee

One responsible restraint
Bumps with lugubrious flounce at once
Demeaning funereal melon custard
The sailor got up and
levitated, like, farther
into the ground, if that’s how your
tradition’s treated
I’ll just eat mine in the car
hobnobbin’ big/guns we revivify this category of photographed man
detangling lily roots from his swimming body
the blurry jogging walloped form along summer’s tessellate budge
            It’s difficult
to specify around which stimulation
congregates, the sidewalk
a “loud position”
            bruises in the malacissant digit pulp
            flushes tomato aromas, hose, as the breezes,
any surveyance,
taddle bathroom latches,
Now that the bulgur has spilled alongside the stove, now map corners
            release their batchy edges exactly trace the
river through Passumpsic upon which it curls, she daubs
airplane glue beneath her nail, upon which position

            “furls”

ritual unrelegated, ghost-mildew, trundled
interior of the carpet tabbing out in medallioned butchery
he reaches, back, through a translucence his own pulverizing, pigeonish palm
            Latchless, if the coffins are that new;
If it happens that there are numerous
and simultaneous dead, that the aleatoric yards
                for not holding his, other image, of people exiting calmly
Then he remarks dew burning from the site’s gunnels, then he turns to his sister
and sways, as if embarked

pars of,
            furtive news cycle
            Or that which at the time would seat & associate
            He disassembles the turntable and makes a show of
imagining usefully the factory that put it together
fruitflies slip climbing his shoulder
hair down the avocado canopy

Then the pattern appeared of
minorah in the flower dirt
And proceeds with tenebrous, empirical; if this alone could make him Jewish
tendons sabotage beneath the fetlock, hence
this video-chatted surfeit of horses
garner in avuncular expectorations

Who calls out to an abandoned numerology
slavering where cherry blossoms signify, of a century
If no one appears very precise, nor full of misgiving
This is where the apartment began to associate its seating
sounded better than the century
Daffodil loosing its petal into her pale inner pinna
Would pester the living, he thinks, and admires the litho of Paul Bunyan
these “mighty” Jews of New England
            waw upon its pivot cabbage
            perspective, in the xanthan light
paring artichoke tines
            pile lazily beside the muzzle, the stage eventually
blanketed by corn husks
thusly emoted about a lesser fiction and finds
a preserve the quality of literariness
in which parents can’t bring themselves
She asked of geography and rededications, filmy
            dung-fawn gnawing its pendulum ad nauseum
 
 
 
 
ORANGE PICKERS

Into a more palatable beyond
It was sequencing
Sketches from a photographed orange grove
That the lens was capable beyond
A certain nearness
The reason “orange grove” in a poem
For poppies
The pencil reaches
Shimmering their leaves, a disturbance
Possible
Colored fragrance in the sun
Less tremored leaves
Of my own accord, it will be important
Beyond a sketching
I have accord with the sense of
Picking unbeknownst
To the picker
For the picker
Her family with warm oranges
Reached in the nearness
Beyond the orange she is grasping
Hot from the sun
From my hand
The pencil made to look as the photograph
Before the orange grove
I photographed the woman sketching it
A mimetic art I was compelled
The way she noticed one vein, dilated by heat
Beneath the tough skin of one boy’s hand transferring
It to the orange
His mother held to her hand
The very image
My hand
It feels obtuse
Spraying cream from this plate into still
Unwashed juice glasses below
Horizons of the poppy field
To imagine, now,
The poppies do not say
What the oranges might
To the picker
For the picker
Of oranges brought cold into sunshine
Undedicated beyond the poppies
Accord the shame of our unknowing, that I may
I have made these dishes clean for us
Eat from them
The sketch is simpler to complete
From the photograph
Than the poppy fields
In boutique cafés
As the sidearm, from the magazine
Beyond the poppy fields lenses train on their image
The sketch is, now, of the photograph
There is little dew
Oranges picked in the night
They are not warmer than
Shimmering under halogen lamps
The grove is green only
Beyond a certain nearness
Of perspective we discussed its production
The accuracy of the orange slipping between palms
Absent as the unthingly
Efficacy
Accuracy promised therefore we have the picture
Before the sketch and
Field, for the picker, I assume it is real
From the photos
One person that looks
Like me she did not finish moving
Flower pitch under their fingers
Toward me, in fear
He mistrusted
It will be important, the mistrust of fear
The other, unarmed man in the field
Peeling an orange
Dauby ripeness the photo achieved
Less expressionless eyes or
“Expressionless eyes”
Though they manage to focus so seamlessly
They looked at me directly without expression
And I was to be compelled
Look from them, it is the impossibility
Casting a shadow
The halogen lights
By any sequence here at once of my continent
Which she is, I believe
In the poem for oranges
From the magazine
He sketches iridescent divots dividing on the orange skin
She photographs
The skin, in the field, her sketching
And the moribund
Redundancy swatting from flora rot
Still pliable flies
Cone out, into the pencil’s black tip
Waggles the flowers in infrequent rain
Toting bustubs
I have made these dishes clean for you
Drink from them
Which, if I have it right, is my real life
Beyond portraiture the landscape full of secrets
Containing people
Watch collective viscera fetish up from the floor vent
In the grove the poppy is placed inside the orange
We would rather have
In the expanding sun
Not getting hotter
 
 
 
 



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