onomatopoeia: the littlest bang

By Mattie Graff

oh wit, whose final hour is upon us!

so toil the bells in their empty sleeves

chattering and trembling a blue so light

the lusts of stars whose violets wither

and yet word by word the purples of euphony

blink in the distance a flutter truly

of longing long past and the prolix syntax—

yes by god and goddess alike

globus and cruciger one and the same

all good and bye and went and came

a flick and spark of red in the night

as birds as candles and deathly bright

the ass with mouth so stuffed with snow

jabber insipid and madmen grow

so bless the enlightenment! illumination!

yes, you, oh pipe and drizzle and sugar

here seconds are fast and minutes are slow,

expiring at the edge of our denouement!

hold holly and mul and bramble and bracket

foolish and cruel and grinding and kind;

the hours mumbling/this floating time

all freezing implosion breathy and close

and moment draws nearer as need most

here daffodil hydrangea swirl of skin

and raspy the ash does plug the throat

real the glass synthetic hands tearing

the womb—taste iron and copper and precious

and stone claw gentle to rip to open

to air or child outshine the sun

you are the bleating and the sickness

so rot and shriek my fragile ink,

pull the letters from my skin

infect wrist by wrist writer and poet  

whose globus be cruciger (one and the same)

bye be good and tears a rain

oh, heavy heart whose passing came

in fabric as wit would pass to claim.