[an excerpt from our Winter 2020 issue]
x.
A rhombus
turning
in a mind.
Fire
without a body,
eating:
air into air.
Looking
without a body.
Sun up.
x.
Reminder of a body,
thinking is.
An angle
regarding itself.
A window
concentrating
space,
an optical
trick
x.
Tuesday
in bed.
Leaves like
coins.
Combing my hair.
A little bit
of planet
walking upright,
wasting it.
The world’s magnetic
shield is tangled.
Roiling pockets
and threads.
Some
good luck.
x.
Starlings,
bacteria,
floorboards,
what else.
Soda.
Rivets.
Tuesday.
Something
I have balled up
and left
in a corner
of the bed.
Wholesome.
Totem.
x.
A blind
and deaf current.
A rhombus
today, debating
if it feels like a rhombus.
A scale we have built,
impossible to fathom.
The only magic
number is one.
A slave—
a man,
not me.
x.
Starlings picking
at bags of trash.
What man is not
meant to do, a lot
of people like
to describe.
But
I’m here, I like
to think
x.
The scope of white.
The prism.
I called you from
the police station
on our first date.
I cooked and ate
and cooked and ate
but never got
it out.
The barbed
underside
of white,
the no-more-
room,
I mean snow,
cup
x.
1890 and an idiotic man
releases 60 starlings
in Central Park
to everyone’s
delight
x.
Colors
are a delusion.
What else. What
else. Tender fresh
molds, washed
atmosphere.
It quakes.
Hit
save
x.
He drew out
a circular library
hidden in an end
of the palace.
He wrote music
for a flute, the one
his father broke.
He grew fruit.
His diseased
genitals removed.
x.
It does not mean much.
It is a ritual.
Speaking to each other.
A ritual.
I longed for it.
x.
Sweet slim
legs of chairs.
You, you
already are
your wife.
Still I
pet your limbs
aimlessly.
You pull
my hair around
my neck and
fake choke.
You will be
relieved
when you can’t
find me.
It stings.
It is enormous.
x.
Honesty.
[Read the full poem and annotation in our Winter 2020 Issue]