1. Morning
Soon, soon:
the dewy,
russet bale! —
the chewy,
tussocked kale! —
the
stooping
knight in mail,
raring for rest.
The exquisite
lady
coiled like
maybe —
tortuous vest — she
loves him
best. And the very mad she-lions the very rough falcons
and cockatrices beating rapid in the wood, swinging
rex beaks like SOME KIND OF maces,
causing attention. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
2. Noon
The ochre hound.
The fast-locked lounge,
where bending he bated his ((careful)) kiss —
delivered it sweetly like letter to cheek.
Oh! His host’s stoned eyes
cut, wet,
like lemons in surprise —
his sister’s children laughing in the strong light
from the decorated veranda. Oh,
wretched December
sky in blind
acid hashes and harlequin diamonds
to hamstring hearts with hurting.
3. Evening
The dog had caught cancer, messing with that dead deer; blessing his flatbread ear, the friar uncertainly turned, caught the master addressing his brat, dread fear with stark, slattern frowns. Meanwhile the hound, unbothered by dying, kept clawing at cushions, baying warning in gothic characters: tumor slash sash, tumor slash sash — at the crux of the problem a crinkle, a wrinkle; a white lie, a slight stye. The old maid lord began to cry. Glumly he hulked into his kitchen: glimpsed his sons by the island caressing, all the air packed with gnats, guests, glares. Get out! Plus the laughter of women, creepily leaning, all over the vibrant silver drain — didn’t they know his pain? Where went Gawain?/Where his white teeth like the shore of Spain?/Where his caged eyes like remorse of Cain?/Hear them jeer on the silver drain; dont they, dont they know my pain?
4. Midnight
Here is romance’s sublime
susurrus —
(a grove of good doves,)
here is the finest
amorous chorus
(fish in bad river;)
yull ever d*mn to
(what else should I give up)
hear from us.
(to improve my love?)
5. Predawn
Darkly he drives too
fast through
the tattered roads, his face askew.
How he chatters, “It’s getting cold!”
His man, his old
host, worn and supportive,
giving directions through
his chewed veil of nails.
While their three
pals clunk in the backseat,
chained and hoping to see
a bright, isolate eave.
“You passed it!
You passed it!
Turn back, turn back.
You passed it. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . you passed it.”
Now the knight
jerks into reverse — breathes angrily
to cry, “Let’s have fun tonight!
Let’s enjoy tomorrow.”
“And the day
after that.
And the day
after that.”
“Until we make
it to climax.
6. Daybreak (Outro)
Aaaaaaaahhhhhhhhh . . . . . .
Aaaaaaaahhhhhhhhh . . . . . .
(fey summer flies change fashion each hour)
Aaaaaaaahhhhhhhhh . . . . . .
Aaaaaaaahhhhhhhhh . . . . . .
(dire uncle casts sweet avalon mower)
Aaaaaaaahhhhhhhhh . . . . . .
Aaaaaaaahhhhhhhhh . . . . . .
(moths abandon their windows — the nightlight’s gone sour)
Aaaaaaaahhhhhhhhh . . . . . .
Aaaaaaaahhhhhhhhh . . . . . .
(travelers, tall as
manners, lean
in their shower)
Lhude sing, cuccu . . . . . . !
never
stop now
Liam McLean is a writer from rural Connecticut, currently based in Brooklyn. He received his BA in creative writing and anthropology from Oberlin College.