French Doors
Well heeled adagio in descent.
The soon is coming. Hollyhocks
on the sallyport. An algebra
of tippy toes. Harvest the moon.
Replenish. Daub the nitwits with
cooking oil. Stomach the flattery
of the sun drenched at nighty
night. Hold what slippery
concedes. Abut the warmth
of pigeons fleshing out history’s
swell. Adorn the unequivocal
with doubt. Ahoy. Both five
and dime. Land’s end beginning
in the muddle of how I met your
mother. How I stole the show
of hands. Eclipsed in the
homestretch of lucky’s love
for English muffins. Kewpie
dolls poised for battle. The tilt
of righted minds in the choir.
View all poems by Philip Byron Oakes
The soon is coming. Hollyhocks
on the sallyport. An algebra
of tippy toes. Harvest the moon.
Replenish. Daub the nitwits with
cooking oil. Stomach the flattery
of the sun drenched at nighty
night. Hold what slippery
concedes. Abut the warmth
of pigeons fleshing out history’s
swell. Adorn the unequivocal
with doubt. Ahoy. Both five
and dime. Land’s end beginning
in the muddle of how I met your
mother. How I stole the show
of hands. Eclipsed in the
homestretch of lucky’s love
for English muffins. Kewpie
dolls poised for battle. The tilt
of righted minds in the choir.
Philip Byron Oakes
View all poems by Philip Byron Oakes