Edited by BLAS FALCONER | BARRY KITTERMAN | AMY WRIGHT
Is the heart that does not fit
into its groove.
Please press one. Please wait
for an operator to assist you.
Water rises into the hills
until there are no hills,
only a black horizon.
Are you drowning? Are you practicing
your gratitude for being saved?
Are you walking down the hall
of their hair they've laid out for you,
to the fields of vinyl flowers
you can sense? Are you also
something that looks enough like you
with nothing living inside:
no ceiling, no aim towards paradise?
It sits a long time considering the ground,
and the rock beneath the ground,
and the wet slip of green
between branches. It is enough
to rest your head between antelopes
and love the fuel of your wife.
It is enough to extend and be rewarded
with the heat you've found to be finite,
and so are like. Ancient and adequate.
In the overcast -- an ax of blackbirds.
Aren't you mistaken?
Aren't you almost accidentally
making the wings up
with your hands in the position of wings?
PoetryWhittling My Legs into a Rocking Chair by Alex Lemon
If some higher power knows
What’s best for us, then bring
On a monsoon of dung
Beetles, a mouthful of rats.