Experimentations in Abstract Postmodernism"The Grave of the Great Alley of Clarity Cats" by Michael Giardina
Cluster at the Head
Late in the morning, a morning blind to periods,
a well-polished, silver-plated country practitioner
wept in the small prison sentence of punctuation.
Deep within this space between the marks,
the old man slept with a sparkling sprinkler,
curled over and half-dead on a power line, tinkering.
What spurred: One call to a period. His...
But the first period was something most moderate,
something practical like a shorter York.
One must read the old man's fingertips, his periods,
even the fruits stored in his wet breast pocket
to silence the stinging, shouting dot.
A growth of ivy covered him in still covers of forgetfulness,
but he was all as well as young and died died dumb
on the memory: climaxing into the velvet of mother's lilac purse.