Brendan Sherry

                   

I knew a man who Was Ten Feet Tall x and on his motorcycles x he would hurry hrry hurry hurry
            You Throw one leg acrossed the seat x Coordinate his jackets and Helmets coloring x and
Changed among its colors, SPEED, makeing it about color, recognition, fever, and a biting sense
             That the world after home wouldbe wet and sleek, and Doable, in her fragilistic Country

If He Died of major Trauma, it is not Important x He lived an unimportant Amount of time, I think
Mostly at a childs schedule, of handholdings xHomework, Halloween x, and trips up to Lavalles
He tells me Very late the whole Heart changes, Gasoline should nt smell so Good x It should not
            Make its lovely Pinsky Rainbows in a functional xx road Equipment, or in hwy guards x
Night shouldnt ring the sleeping Awake, x School should Not Take Place past the fouroclock hour

But, being on the other side ofkx knowing, my man, Knowing all his same Time, haveing spent
            It elsewhere, Concurrently now x with his only Pictures on my Echo Show recurring
Nevermind if any Dying thoughts are unx Recorded x for the privilege of all us, hereafter Dying
            Its a holiday of what was Sealed up, vs. then leaked out x in the direction of the drain x
Whats there unweved x the Rains our bygone ballads the Blankets running Acidental, the Body x
            Stalling x the thing that Takes, the Passing lane


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Brendan Sherry lives in North Carolina. Recent work has appeared or is forthcoming in Poetry Northwest, Annulet, DIAGRAM, The Spectacle and elsewhere.