Find and share the perfect poems.
The fire. It is a matter
of time. I belong
to the knives. And I
must have already.
My body will need
to surrender. Like spills
around the conifers.
When a lasting visitor
mirrors slowness
and up until now
darts across my red sky.
From Tributary (Barrow Street Press, 2015) by Kevin McLellan. Used with the permission of the publisher.
The furnace pilot light hadn’t ignited
this first cold morning and I
didn’t discard the broken glass
in hopes of it reminding me
breaking happens. I am the end
of reproduction. This doesn’t
concern wanting or not wanting.
Earlier outdoors. The overexposure
[
] another kind of winter
for the eyes. Now in the mirror
I mustn’t withdraw and slowly read
them. Perhaps the same kind
of questions reside in both pupils.
too much conditioner
but I liked the feeling
down my back
& in a flash my hand
glided off my ass.
this is the closest i’ll be
to being a gymnast,
but can’t recall
which staircase i regularly took
& used both banisters
to fully avoid the stairs.
landing. landing. landing.
& what i believe
to be genetics throbbed
in my temple again—
another distant relative
i didn’t know died.