Mint Leaves Burn Wild


This poem has seen many shapes. I like this shape it's in right now, although I'm still wrestling with what I mean by 'wrangling time' and what I think the relationship between time and language is. Maybe I just thought it all sounded interesting at the time, but I'd like more precision. Nevertheless, I'm leaving this poem as it is, as an anchor to think about what I mean by 'wrangling time' and, then, how to wrangle it with language.
_____________________________________________________________________________________


Mint Leaves Burn Wild

When a leg is breaking, when a record
skips. Time expands sometimes, and sometimes

shrinks. Confined to the couch
with cast and Boléro, a lengthy om, a call
for toast. In slow

motion, a desperate request
flattens into noise. Some sounds a mouth 

won't do. How make my pharynx do
anything? Somebody, god,
make my uvula trill and my memory

spit up the gold. I want to speak
the language of the soil, perturb the sinusoids

from each craven articulation
enough to taste each sound. Lovely
vanilla, cocoa, mint leaves

burn wild up the tongue. This language,
this one can wrangle time.




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