VIC CHESNUTT STONEHOUSE

Pupils of ink rejoice in treetops

Rubbing rivers to take impressions 

Of overcooked, human-like relaxers,

Small and seasalting 

The rattles at dawn, and inside

The lodged larvae is a drowned spirit

Perversely locking

Deep pits with basements

And 99 atmospheres

That will suit me just fine

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As dirt washes and blenders pulse, I place

Corn down the invader

Off-tick my pen hours, the socks and broth

Prep for weeks

An eden of the small, marvelous fawn

Sipping from a river and nervously gawking 

At seasides of egg, the

Cheap pits

Hissing when all my sadness is lawn

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Said day playing gnostic games takes

My lungs away, and then a gypsy

Exposes the soul-crushing delay

And she brandishes me 

With a swearing by God that

When heralded refills

The eden of my pit

The rubber pupils

The socks in the casket that lay and lay