Losing in a Way Most Dream Of

Harrowing about a mayfly having

only one day to amour, such a rush

all solitary in its profundity —wilful

its start as a naiad within a grip

counting a day without audio to

transmit, a constraint—taciturn.

Gaunt analogous on a blunt rail by a wharf.

A small gift I lost was my coming of favour.

The crisp division was calm I thought I saw

two dawns span a flood bank of intrinsic.

Talk about drying your wings in risk of a stint.

Wigwag into occasional highs occasional lows

I was a mayfly, a virgin, a nymph O I abscond

brook trout, abscond ducks, amphibians,

abscond the fast flow. Animus and all day’s uniform

as all hours count as a wink, a nod, a pair of moons,

wind, rush blush, dusted clouds of air, that hasty fantasy

I think about and fashion words for, and again —I do not.

Sometimes I write poems under constraints. I don’t usually use verse as a constraint. In this case I wrote this poem without using the letter “e.”