Four poems by Gil Orlovitz
Four poems by Gil Orlovitz stories
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# Art of the Sonnet: 214 > I give you more than love, I give you insanity,
By MilkbottleF

Four poems by Gil Orlovitz

by MilkbottleF

# Art of the Sonnet: 214

> I give you more than love, I give you insanity,

> I give you the clock off my back, my extra pair

> of blind eyes, my seat at the Fire Exchange,

> my god I give you my fins in mothers jelly

> preserves, what more do you want, Kriss Kringle,

> I give you my third cheek for the turning, its tear

> turned into the homicide squad, my special foghorn

> for bright days, my single ski gene,

> I give you my age by consulting my carbon ball,

> my special barber who tunes his comb on crystal

> skulls, my ether wings for theoanesthesiologies,

> and all my old wives,

> what more can you need, Kriss Kringle, than

> these mended toys for unintended children ?

# Art of the Sonnet: 165

> When in the rise and fall of torsos in

> the twilight-crusted torque I heard the sennet

> of my hour, I said I had not posed

> for ancient races or their deathless fetes;

> I held no brevities to my garbled nose;

> and I was impervious to my gaited skin.

> With skull and limbs how shall I be pagan?

> how shall I model, then, a century's turn

> in the light bronze dusk to torsion's paradise?

> For I am that finally civilised threat--

> the fully clothed bearer of the letter

> of credit, the total failure of nakedness.

> I broke my trumpeted hour over my crutch,

> that all crippled torsos might beg as much.

# Art of the Sonnet: 233

> Now do the oaks in the winter stand like nuns

> against the blue-sheared stone of the mountainside,

> as if to make of whatever flinty bounty comes

> their boughs from passing glints of gods a tithe

> of memory--against that time when we

> shall be born again with instruments, and Judgment

> Day how well we played with them, just

> as these oaks must have been sown to some wind's

> sound and grown nigh on a tune that left them so

> in a grave bride's dance to a groom who went

> with the dying air of his strings before

> she was taken.

> Perhaps, on the other side of the mountain, if it is bare,

> we can wait without our habits for him there.

# The Impeccable Barbed Wire

> The impeccable barbed wire blasting birds;

> snarled, then, with bellowed warble,

> the huddle of wings hogtied. But, trussed

> to the terminals, how gorge these bleating

> toggles to its own taut? Nicked to

> the narrows, waspwrung, the wire wails

> to rust, its own spare bloodpoisoning,

> that across the arbitrary it be not charged

> with next-of-kill, but the knack

> of felling niche some sapped rots

> away. We are clean out of powdered

> red flakes, and cannot, for

> the impersonal life of us, snap into song.

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