These poems exist in various states of solidity and satisfaction.
I have tried for days to trap the words I want to say to you, to pin them down, quick bright wings under glass with terse and excellent labels — this is craftwork, this is forgetting — all the easier, then, to identify, to organize — short sharp jabs, a perfect library of flight. This is my heart in letter shapes for you, oh take it, pin it. The margins are gorgeous.
A homophonic translation of Henrick Nordbrandt’s “Efter en ond drøm” now titled “after one, a dram,”
the jigger unneeded, sad lack in our plan.
then the store, sorted greed
of cans and baling
wire, the kind heart echo
of dear ones eking a tillage.
but the market is stuck, bought and paid,
perhaps we held it rigidly, stood
on one leg. stuck. folded into seven
at once, mine sore behind
sad corrections. A skein
of saccharine lips, red, sidles off.
The fire begins so crooked, a dreary engine
of elder copses,
dear ones have settled—oh, allure—bags of door mice,
Mix hooves with my arms &
verve like a braggart.
I have ever desired
this sort of plastic pose,
the sad righting of a crop gone fast.
And a few more poems over at Former People: A Journal of Bangs and Whimpers.