My mind blooms
outside the pawn
I am struck
dumb by knives
in their morgue
All I want is good
blade, an edge.
my life, this sleet,
this rust, my shoes
that flicker like
at the end
at the end of
the weird alley
goes to clot.
DECORATIONS FOR A MOOD NOCTURNE
after Wallace Stevens
Pianissimo played the piano in the rain.
A quiet playing for a quiet rain.
The day was grey, then was blue.
The day became a sea for you.
Thinking of you, thinking of you.
Thinking of the color blue.
Thinking, thinking is all one can do.
Unless such thinking produce the color blue.
In Florida, the starry sky a pleasure that leans upon the gate,
an effort nonchalant, of posture humid, sultry, constellate.
But when the lunar car departs it drags its folded iron weight
across the dawn like a castle door, an egress sublimate.
Crispin. Crispin. Crispin. Present yea or nay?
The lines you gave to terra firma, one is compelled to say,
Exact in pedal forms and fugal pulminations, so yea.
Yet hatreds they do betray, many hatreds, so also nay.
Jon Cone is a writer who lives in Iowa City. His published works include LEAST (Greying Ghost), THE PLESYRE BARGE (Greying Ghost), SITTING GETTING UP SITTING AGAIN (Standing Guard in a Cornfield Press), FAMILY PORTRAIT WITH TWO DOGS BLEEDING (Phrygian Press), as well he has appeared in several anthologies and numerous journals both online and in print. His most recrnt collection is COLD HOUSE (Espresso-Chapbooks), published in 2017.