In response to preconception I’ve adapted wrinkles,
a clever and malevolent grin. I would say the mockingbird knows.
The wind, however, is oblivious. Don’t ask what I mean
speaking of traps and forest fires. The soul yearns
for the loquaciousness of crickets, especially on a night like this.
A rebellion against half-truths of petrified knaves,
or what passes for nabobs in backwater towns,
constructs itself from nothingness, rhyme. I’ve been cleansed
by gin, or so I say, against the strife of so many years—
dreams, disease, quotidian decay. Red hawthorn
surges in corridors of brick, born again of intensive conjecture,
the polished loafers of one hundred and forty-three
scholars known to these halls, who have returned to pay homage,
redress, recapitulate—fomenting the illimitable potential of the age.

Kevin J.B. O’Connor received his MFA from Old Dominion University. Currently, he is pursuing a PhD in English at University of Kentucky. He has work forthcoming in Notre Dame Review this fall. He lives in Lexington, KY.

This entry was posted in Poetry and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.