John Latta — Two poems

Gusto

Uncertain of the rules, lash’d

By disarming inexactitude, no husband’d

Play, meager, nude, now resurrects

What’s nigh on quash’d. Th’ongoing

Animal delight in marshalling a

Trove of love-manoeuvres secure

Admits gusto as mere human

Toxic imbalance, or blight. So

The usual spring abounds, trawling

A too delicate sun across

Lawns where rude boys run

And choose up sides with

Aimless sounds. And words ‘withoute

Oony withholdyng’ make public rut

With a fayre ‘what if’

And all evidence kaput forthwith.

Obvious

Of course. Stupid of me.

Hunkering down near the kohlrabi,

Scrounging around for anything new,

Partial humidity with clearing rains,

Lightning ascent in acting ‘clubby.’

Yesteryear’s fucks come back: arcane

Torsos mount’d with spiritual spit.

The absence of everyday life

Is obvious. You muff’d it.

Insane. Typically a big leap

To avoid unpleasant scenes — compendia

Of teen wit in talk,

Mannerist and undeter’d, of creeps.

And me likewise acquires that

Tittery Proustian mystery, uncertain escapades

In ruins I sincerely doubt.