dawn
Â
that will suit him, dark green plastic
to pile up. Ribs creak
a bit on an uneven floor. You donât swing
Â
your brain, you swing a dish. Once more you burn
crumbs, a face, pathos. You yellow
the black seed. I march nowhere. Honey flows
Â
down my throat. Shed, breached, as if a machine
gets dressed. Little barrels shielded us in the spirit
of Godâs eye. We poured them out as we swam.
Boiling Throats
With the screech owl the seed grows from the face.
The white vacuum pumps, the white vacuum pumps,
how you are squeezed. The cylinder is always strict.
The coil only sleeps in the clouds.
The cat and I, we scratch ourselves,
she will wreck my jacket.
She waits for fresh scales and the tone.
Clones evaporate faster.
At Fanelliâs she whispers to herself the membrane
of the pigeon mail. She waits for fresh scales
and the tone. Little onion leaves are beneath the hooves
of fallen angels. They look like sacks.
They burst because of the farewell.
Anyone who goes soft gives away his voice.
The Catalans, The Moors
Poetry is a hatchery for martyrs. The river
rinses the butter.
Warum Nichts
? A window
is installed in a house, a house is installed in the dawn.
A clock strikes the quarter hour. I am left behind,
I am left behind, on the beach at Menorca
I expire like a crocodile. In the region
of Ciutat (with bicycle) near the young man
in his bathing suit from the twenties,
reading Cavafy. Did he have heavy hands?
Goran has heavy hands. Iâm molasses,
donât forget that. Cat with cloudy
eyes. Voice found in the emptiness
and driving you to the precipice. Graveyards
as at PotoÄka Zijalka. Layers on layers.
Sand and Spleen Were Left in Your Nose
Blow into whales, schoolboy. The bait doesnât hurt.
Elephants, when alarmed, no longer know
the river. They carry penicillin between
ears and ribs, and trample reeds. Chess
comes from their backs. Birdsâ pecking
on a tarp is only one part of rocking. The sea
is black with fine sand. The white cork shines.
Palm trees that open beneath the robbed one
(all the checks, all the hash, two of Jureâs letters),
you watch from two levels. The Ganges can wash
away the double. Luckily the current was fast enough
and in the morning, already at sunrise,
at the ritual murders, only one sipped and reaped
and didnât care at all to wake up.
Arm Out and Point the Way
Vigorous, disfigured mice,
tassels or bonbons. Latte (the name
of the bitch with white fur), did the wheels
Â
overeat like the heads of memory at the ends
of wood-limbs by Deacon? They were quite
devoured. Stretched out, softened,
Â
given and given. Slime
washes windows. Peter, as a rule,
dances. Shoe shining is coming back,
Â
the white matrix of the Announcing Angel.
People walking along roads
is coming back, the fluttering
Â
of overcoats and the stopping of coaches.
The rushing to work and the paying
of tolls. Weâre a bunch of flowers. Napoleons
Â
of the Bible. Worms between butter
and jam at the vaults of Inter Conti.
Ceelia Min signs.
Â
The foam curses and counts.
A bottle is missing.
Surely itâs hidden under the coverlet.
Fallow Land and the Fates
The boy scrubs the kitchen and crushes
the dot to mom. Godfathersâ microwaves
catch fire. Snakes, Easter eggs, gray hats,
and crampon lamps flake from the pillars
on the walls. He who brews brandy
pants on screes, incantation.
Boils he who carries the mountain
and this one who unsaddles, supports yuppies.
I rotate breasts and papers. The river
makes the mesh. Itâs easy to find shapes
in the profiles of stones, but in the mud
thereâs the weight of the horse-collar. Sinking stools,
you canât pierce water! Only the scattered
water can drink water. The full water twists.
Perfection
Leather without history. Strength without
rickets. From a drawer. On the hand a wire. Blood
is silk. Walk silently. Blood is
Morgan Parker
Kelley Armstrong
Heather Graham
Ron Hansen
Sally Mason
Chrystalla Thoma
Deborah Bladon
Ariella Papa
Kevin Barry
Sean Williams