Wednesday, September 03, 2014

Tod Marshall


Bullock, buculus.  Castrated young bull. 
Coiled horn.  The long light shakes across the lakes:    we buy in bulk.
Give me that oral tradition, that ancient wordy call: 
gums, tongues, and mouths mouthing, eat, sucky, talk.
Embouchure—outmoded by the carefree trumpet:
toodle-oo to Gideon, Joshua, and Saul.  Infinite
surface, finite volume: it might 
be well to mention here that a bugle is sounded, 
not blown.  O coppery Butte, O superfunded
blunder, zinc-y need.  A pit is the earth stripped.
Regimented troops need their toots: Assembly,
Dismiss, Reveille, and Tattoo; Knock Off Bright 
Work, Man Overboard, Bayonet, Abandon Ship. 
Sayeth the Boogie Woogie, The Boy, sayeth me.

Tod Marshall lives in Spokane, Washington. His third book of poems, BUGLE, is forthcoming from Canarium Books.