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Literature Text
he wakes with dim morning and relieves himself,
washes his hands and face,
and dresses in the same clothes he wore yesterday.
he walks out to the garden,
following a cobblestone path to the copper fountain
to scrape algae from its basin,
disturbing robins from their bath and fireflies from lovemaking.
the sun rises above thin clouds
and beats upon him; he wipes sweat from his brow,
blackening his forehead, filling cracks brought by years passed.
he waters the petunias, the asters,
leaving the blue hydrangeas after he prunes their dry blossoms,
throwing the waste at the compost heap.
their hammock, tethered between ripe cherry trees, has weathered
and can no longer support his entire weight,
so he rests his hat on her cushion,
the one frayed and molding, embroidered with her name,
resting where she left it.
washes his hands and face,
and dresses in the same clothes he wore yesterday.
he walks out to the garden,
following a cobblestone path to the copper fountain
to scrape algae from its basin,
disturbing robins from their bath and fireflies from lovemaking.
the sun rises above thin clouds
and beats upon him; he wipes sweat from his brow,
blackening his forehead, filling cracks brought by years passed.
he waters the petunias, the asters,
leaving the blue hydrangeas after he prunes their dry blossoms,
throwing the waste at the compost heap.
their hammock, tethered between ripe cherry trees, has weathered
and can no longer support his entire weight,
so he rests his hat on her cushion,
the one frayed and molding, embroidered with her name,
resting where she left it.
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Literature
snowglobe
we hoped it would get bad enough to break glass
that one of our voices
would find the note
to split the window
make a neighbour call the cops
that the dishes would shatter
into too many pieces
to be picked off the floor
we wanted glass in our heels
a trickle of heat
a flicker of colour
in the sun-blank snow
the pines leaned on our doorframe
we waited for them
to pressure in and unfurl
shower our stunned faces
in a rain of needles
knock the teapot off the table
in a blossom of shards
but the trees stood by
evergreen and identical
the same dream of pine repeating
behind yellowing plastic
we painted shut the door
with smi
Literature
in retrograde
here again i name myself an elegy for soft.
the ghosts unstitching their mouths–
impossible inevitable inconsequence.
the remainder. the echo. the wake.
pared to the bone, marrow unraveled;
a web of stars racked to the machine. soft;
you dead dreamweaver. threaded-needle-tongue.
here again this slingshot orbit cups an untouched moon.
claim yourself new. become untouchable. you remember:
this reassembly, this reinvention of choice.
become a fist pressed to the apex.
cut the compass out of your mouth.
soft; unspeak yourself again. you remember:
this funeral sacrament of a stopgap creed,
vacant planet unspun to wire–
clear th
Literature
A Graveyard
We’re sick enough to spill someone else’s blood,
paint a picture of ourselves with it, and call it love.
I guess that’s what the ego does
when it forgets the bodies we’ve become will eventually turn back to dust.
We’ve held onto the worst parts of our nature,
tried to survive on rotten fruits of our labor—
maggot filled and mangled flesh, should’ve seen it as a sign,
but lately we’ve been complaining that the apple hasn’t been tasting right.
Taste buds blossom and reach up for the taste of death,
spit spilling out our lips, smoke collecting in our chests,
hands erecting effigies
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