—————-
D-e-p-o-e Bay Well, it’s a misspelled place Unless “Depoe” is French or means more than storage But no one’s talking no one’s saying Edgar Allan’s honored obliquely discreetly But no one’s scared no one’s anxious Business is good It’s summer and crowded The D River flows and waters the sea a hundred yards at a time Later on we’ll know And know what to make of it Silence falling out of the geographic word to an Absolute name begun like the start of the day its training wheels barely spinning ’round First part of a book’s impulse and cry for help for delivery A depot for Defoe and archive It is the bay-before-departure’s bathtub with baby boats and brand-new brains Tub in the house of Tiny Town Whose strict constructions belie the superseding chaos of coastal funny-faces sounding city names beginning with “D” You can almost believe in their brevity I want you to remember enough just enough to pronounce the syllables two that tell of the time there And remember the tide that came in as if out of curiosity and obedience for a word-for-word of morning blessing Plenty of place despite the crowds And tamper-proof despite the depot’s shifting alphabetical being The deal is: although THEN there were Indians and the Taliban is due and certainly TO COME right now you are safe safe safe and thoroughly astray in a town like a vault of tumblersCategories: poem by Steve Arntson
Eos: The Creative Context 
Leave a Reply