Geoff Bouvier

A CALL TO ORDER

In love with their lyrics, they lead us by rote – lined up like ants,

everyone on foot, spelled as we felt – toward a conflagration,

chastening adulteration.

Songs, then – lit songs, light, long in teams – untie themselves –

night stops – lash up and snap at the tips of bright knots – hot hopes –

tie back the dark and untie from old tricks.

Sung, then – tongued aflame. To heat – re-baptized by rote.

In love with their lyrics, lost to the notes.

REFINING SESTINA

With intention, echoes echo – each repeating – disenchanted

in a canyon, always changing.

Always changing with direction, in a canyon, echoes

echo, disenchanted, each repeating.

Each repeating, always changing, disenchanted with

expression, echoes echo in a canyon.

In a canyon, each repeating, echoes echo, always changing,

with impressions, disenchanted.

Disenchanted in a canyon with inflection, each repeating,

always changing, echoes echo.

Echoes echo, disenchanted, always changing, in a canyon,

each repeating, with corrections.

THE LAPS BEFORE COMMITTING TO LOCATION

Loud cars sear near, fast, lest this be listless. Race!

Or, wait. What was the name of that revolutionary person? No,

the one who turned down the existing conclusion, careering in a loud

car, not far from here?

Go, loud cars, sear on, to subjects unknown.