Who's She My Banshee

after J.H. Prynne's (1993)


the fuselages ache circuitously their
lifejackets fusing musically where
the lyre rotors mismunch their
cockpit screams streaming scarflets

those bare red n's in need of folding
for geese v around original apples
less than or greater than the voun
whose sound is deafeningly definitive

now propellers hide in the hay with
toads their goads a combustion a
fusing of sopping wet camels' fresh
flechettes for sentences' fall