Unpwned Momentum on Worcester accept these jet skies. remain unpwned but surround a topic with servile pleas, for instants. the dam seeps sanely. a whiff of common ground seems like poem. no one relies on Louis Zukofsky except when the dread of melting seems most dire. we relate in penned moments, and come again. this sex that stills the waters also ignites them. those waters, sour when the rain is old, charges us supremely. we write of daffy fiends, nuclear almonds, cousinly trapdoors, and more than enough. enough is a surcharge yet when we exceed, primroses, pure as water. water went the way: into the breath of Worcester. we write poems as staggering targets, gullies for freshets, lapsed pining in the daily reward program. such reefs and poems that we assay, trying times but love intends. it has this hold, it is our boat. we right in deed and that's our place. place is the name. such, that is, that Worcester, least of all, can hold. Zukofsky rips a new one there, every day.
poems, fireflies...