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In the Annum

ISSUE:  Winter 2018


In the annum of the weather,
of Anderson [&] McAuley, of the linen store, 
of wind flinging itself, like
an illegal logger on the scent of mahogany, 
ceaselessly along Royal Avenue’s brittle core; 
in the annum of the occupants before
the occupants before the
Annunciation of Tesco; 
in the annum.
                         In the annum when the public chose 
as its favored means of adornment of the civitas 
and bird murder
the malleable beauty of plastic, flung 
with a gay abandon in its various forms
this to the wind like a logger seeking mahogany; 
when the river choired solemnly
a symphony of plastic,
accompanied by bellows and drums; 
in the annum.
                         In the annum of the water bomb, 
of dog turds crusted on the street
and The Key to the Kingdom;
in the annum of the girl’s shoe with
a key in the heel and of Loyd Grossman’s Through the Keyhole
of the lough’s coagulate scum;
in the annum of the one known homeless one, 
of five lighters for a pound,
the annum of the underground melody.

                         In the annum that preceded 
American Beauty, in the annum of the ultrasound 
of the city, in the annum of the wind
that stung like an illegal logger sniffing out mahogany 
through the packed straits of the forest like a disease 
and strummed to the river’s choked threnody
and passed the party
where a child won shoes with keys in the heel
to ploy with the fingers of the one known homeless one;

                         in the annum of the Kingdom Come 
where dirt-fouled fingers ran like birds
in the loft of the brain
up and down the throat of a whistle—a clutch 
of green-tipped metal in the hands
of the homeless one—
as senseless and absolute as rain; 
in the annum of the end
of the end of days
though scarcely recognized as such
the unknown herald brought to them a different voice.



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