416 and 431, Two Poems by Owen Lucas




I was not aware;
And at the center of my lackwit

A bulbous awl-handle
Jacked in the groove, sundering

From me my gee-whizz.
I was not aware, though it stood

To reason that light
Tumble down through the trees,

And that the woman
I wait for move somehow away,

And the whole damn show
Fold in its foppery and bally-ho.

It stood therefore
To reason that the day grow blue

And the speech of those
Around me swing slowly out of it,

Out of all its own sense;
Turn to rawest bloody gibberish.

So I turn down neatly
My soul ; so I prepare soundly for

A fine, long sleep.
I turn : I turn and close the door.



In the trees this early
Evening that stir

With the discretion
Of flaxen coral,

I understand whets
Of the warmth

I am passingly given,
And that chortling

On emptiness may
Be my boulot,

At least as long as last
The sarcastic

Posturings of the long
Row of houses,

Which communicate
Stupidly just that

I am outside of them,
And whatever light

Plays across the soft
Interior of whatever

Room, it is a frequent
And soon end that will

Brusquely set us down,
And the furnishings

Waste and the entire
Domestic scene

Terminate coherently
And so be resolved.

In any case, the rented
Body blunders on!


Owen Lucas is a British writer living in Norwalk, Connecticut. His poetry, fiction and translations have been published in more than thirty journals in the US, Britain and Canada. Recent credits include Off the Coast, Lost in Thought, Contemporary Poetry 2, and Qwerty, with new work out soon in Tirage Monthly, Tribe and Free State Review. For more: owenlucaspoems.com