I Put Here Some Words

Carl Boon


I might not spell, I lisp at starlight,
I fail.

These are foreign to me, vowels
foreign to my ears,

consonants not my streets,
not lavender, not soft

in the way they fall across the ear.
Stuttering, impure,

I was made for stories instead.
My hills are silent,

so I speak to them. 
I’ve gotten used to not being heard.

But this is a mood. I have moods,
and blues, and Jerry Garcia

plucking at my hair
as I lay in bed. But I’ve chosen

this life, this old alliance.
I am not John Hurt, John the Baptist.

I bring no one life, no one back
from the dead.

I fail every time—in seven swamps
in north Florida

you will find me, seven of me,
reciting, smoothing over

what’s left of my hair. The air
is still and hot. A poem

is supposed to crawl and leap.
I can’t touch the girl I love.



Carl Boon lives and works in Izmir, Turkey. His poems appear in dozens of magazines, most recently Two Thirds North, Jet Fuel Review, Blast Furnace, and Sunset Liminal.

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