Joni Wallace

What is stone pony; solves for ingot confetti

 

Girl, a pinafore, the most gorgeous blooms there.  That creeping patina.         

The way the shutters hinged out, unspeakable. Maybe she thinks a pattern    

into stones beneath her shoes. A pony, paint.  Another thought into its bright: 

a Lidy Prati. How to sing it?   A whumpf sound, brume blown      

through shirt's hung.  Card clapping its spokes.  Which am I, which are you? 

it tickety ticked.  Bicycle? Ball bearing? Scrap? Screw?        

 

In the Theater of Everyone Down on the Floor Again. 

 

At approximately 4:50 a.m.  Horse become hold-all become split shot

become stun runnel become die cut become field of zinnias which bloweth so blithely

in the shock front, a rococo of, an ear-burst's yellow/black butterfly slick darksome.