Poem: Permanently

Ken­neth Koch

One day the Nouns were clus­tered in the street.
An Adjec­tive walked by, with her dark beauty.
The Nouns were struck, moved, changed.
The next day a Verb drove up, and cre­at­ed the Sentence.
Each Sen­tence says one thing—for exam­ple, “Although it was a dark
     rainy day when the Adjec­tive walked by, I shall remem­ber the pure
     and sweet expres­sion on her face until the day I per­ish from the
     green, effec­tive earth.”
Or, “Will you please close the win­dow, Andrew?”
Or, for exam­ple, “Thank you, the pink pot of flow­ers on the window
     sill has changed col­or recent­ly to a light yel­low, due to the heat from
     the boil­er fac­to­ry which exists nearby.”
In the spring­time the Sen­tences and the Nouns lay silent­ly on the grass.
A lone­ly Con­junc­tion here and there would call, “And! But!”
But the Adjec­tive did not emerge.
As the adjec­tive is lost in the sentence,
So I am lost in your eyes, ears, nose, and throat&emdash;
You have enchant­ed me with a sin­gle kiss
Which can nev­er be undone
Until the destruc­tion of language.

Cyn is Rick's wife, Katie's Mom, and Esther & Oliver's Mémé. She's also a professional geek, avid reader, fledgling coder, enthusiastic gamer (TTRPGs), occasional singer, and devoted stitcher.
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