Spring 2012

Edited by BLAS FALCONER | BARRY KITTERMAN | AMY WRIGHT



Poetry

Dukkha

Philip Matthews


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? 




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