poem: roundly we can hear

for wsb

yellow-haired girl calls
his name twice,
flips it in the air
like angular salsa,
bewitching the silences
in his head,
this curiouser of elegant
mammals, a vigilante
panda-bear of cushy
intensity, the oval
of nights you will find,
the care with which they
will find you too, baby bear,
all your vigorous
plim plom plum
hiding - but not too
generously, not too roundly,
we can hear your trumpets
calling, twixt the din of escape,
the patter of avalanches
in cerebral netherclimes:
you can accentuate,
you can contemplate,
you can dive under the regress
of your caveman blunders,
your sensitive tide-bearing eves
of consequence; calibrated
youth bears down with a dance
that mirrors the very notions
you malinger, the body's weakening
hindrances, the heart's
castaway filé gumbo, bop
till you drop,
teeny bopper in the whispering hazies,
capitulations in the kiss-on-your-listing,
epiphany in the south 40,
edification for your Tinkerbell salivations,
quicksilver messengers in the glimpse of your
offsetting
dressy casual
fit for the Elvis chapel glance.