A Midnight Weary by richard lynn livesay

A poet ponders special sounds to try

the A, E, I, O, U, W and Y

or the action verb after before found noun

making a tense decision for a constant consonant

Is it a rock with juts and angled edges

or a stone, weather-softened and rounded?

and will they mean in spite of being and be crowned with silky sound?

But wait! Alas, his boots sloshed through the mushy muddy mound

as woods whispered

he watched the falling snow softly fluted

turning the power line into a white tangent

across the branch filled sky, muted

My happiness increased as I sipped the hemlock tea in

a chronic breath of terminal and everlasting semi- circular abatement

beneath my structure much less safer than equaling divine intervention

meaning without being and being without the crown of silky sound

Shall I disappear beneath the typhooned sea wall distilled with verbiage

rising like fog-fingers

watching my lauraless casket become fertilizer?

I see a lawless ghost without a sundial

a telephone too busy to critique lost  causes

but poetry is like weaving letters into a sensitive garment of many colors

Washed in cold water to prevent shrinkage, worn to prevent anonymity

a moniker of a poet stitched inside my consciousness

so that I may propose a

predisposed preposition

to connect my prose without

dancing, uninformly to 

barbarous indexes of weaved letters