by Mark Bibbins, Editor
Once in the dark cold and water-table bliss
or blue of the fractioned and visible land
for the tiny halves of most lives
where the country and the city and the pantry all converge
For a time the slice had misshapen
the way it melts in the
tiring sun of the day the stitches
whose low deep voice made a
just entangle of the whole rotting fruit.
Goats and the milk which comes and lies
and numbering and circle sorts.
I can’t receive my petition my
hesitancy because one knows
is a slimy and cheap oak clock
Spanish is the reemergent fine-time and the
tight rope slither and link
The vagrancy or relevancy but
mostly it’s the dream of mothering
I make a perfect and terrible woman
when fire’s in the soaring lifesuit of the pace
and like insert of an eagle is much the way
I met the man named Americo Ferrari which
surprised me sounding so much
the space and the luxe in both parts
Rebecca Kosick writes and translates in Ithaca, NY.
More poems? Yes.
You may contact the editor at email@example.com.