Joseph Tate

Of least concern

And for what? she asks, and for what are you

because me, I’m: For the not-Foxy-Loxy

and the not-wolve, the yes Coyote(-yote).

I too for them, yes. Nahuatl coyōtl, the cayjotte, cocyotie:

They, Allegory of Want, Wile E., and Of least concern. 

Binomial as Canis latrans. Per Mr. T. Say said, remember? as we read:

    "hair at base dusky plumbeous,"

    "in the middle of its length dull cinnamon,"         

Or, Cinereous / Fulvous, depending as when—

as when: at the Rayleigh scattering of dusk,

they cross the dooryard lilac'd in l'heure bleue / as when:

dawn, the bollards, in their sodium-vapor glow—

as a light-time overlaps into a dark-time,

and they appear to us, as then, in the prairie's winter shadows,

"beneath: immaculate."

"I was born in the head of the archer."

You, too, from the realm

of that four-fold enduring, in and to the heat of the field

of helium that are mine,—Is.

How to hew to what one hews and step over, in brightness, and

down to where the hammer rings on the anvil of oneself:

"guided by the feeling of what    fits, what

informs or what promises form,"

Hypotheses non fingo, "euen unto the

Hyssope," &c.

My learning seeks your abandon;

the root bends, even light bends,

in its lensing.

C-47 Skytrain, Dec 1944

We were half-broke cordwood stack-crammed in a

Red-crosst Gooney bird, bound

from the vastie fields of France for Yngellond,

when Someother Whatshisname,

—Mr.    Medico,—to him, he says,—& you,     over there—

talking at me but to the all of us,—

Mr. You're-on-a-stretcher   -too:

What's

—see here, all you could hear was engine hum-

stammering & fuselage clanging,

pressure clamping on words in the colder than cold, so

Whatshisname is yelling through the ear thuds

—        Better than a

kick

   in the pants,

or a stick      in the eye.

Hell, way-hell     better

                                            than an

egg    in your beer.   White sheets    

for Christmas.—&—

HOLY smokes.   Dreamboat

you're    reading

a book of       poetry—

nah, no, but I was wondering at one being writ recto-verso right there:

trundling on wide wings

through white peaches of cloud in bundles,

spills of summer-strong winter sun soaking

the windows & that blue,

that real gone blue.

As at night,

by the hospital, "Unambiguous

anguish at the"—

it was a slightest turn

—"absent gesture. Any

of us

would fold into," or "quarl," "abrupt" was considered

    (as a verb.    ).

The perfect figment of, not even a lapse,    and you're

at the loom, at the lure of    not what-if   but

Orogeny   Orbital decay, Or  

the  green stem, upward, for petal,   in milliturns, 

unfolds from where  

its seed  among the erratics,       

the spall,   

fell

‍Joseph Tate is a writer based in Seattle. His poems have appeared in dadakuku, Another Chicago Magazine, ē·rā/tiō, Measure, and other publications