I’d search for an anything anywhere,
or I would create and put one in place,
knowing full well the proof’s in the putting
more than the anything there that is put.
In the ventriloquial woulds I was
struck in the forehead with a suction cup
tipped glabellular childlikely arrow
and there it stuck, where it looked as silly
as a window.
It’s black now but tomorrow there’ll be light
turning the light-hit objects colorful
and touching with fondlemania such
leaves as the diseases of leaves
in the fuddle of soft shadows survived.
TWIXT is the mononym-onym of Peter Specker; he has had poetry published in Margie, The Indiana Review, Amelia, California State Quarterly, RE:AL, Pegasus, First Class, Pot-pourri, Art Times, The Iconoclast, Epicenter, Subtropics, Quest, Confrontation, Writers’ Journal, Rattle, Prairie Schooner, Tulane Review and others. He lives in Ithaca, New York.