The fact that he’s rolling
down the old fear
through scraped, incremental homesickness
makes his intelligence a gunfire journey.
The skies cocoon phantoms.
Fifty jeers for the ninth wife,
who asks walls about the inferno in a metro.
There’s the matter of the burnt-wick with your mother,
whose coffee stare is so intense, you’re the absence.
Mating requires come balloons
and light from a show, hibiscus-pink.
We are a million nights, a fox hairbrush,
Give me cake, and I’ll Instagram it.
Shoulders flex and reflex.
Trains are the slow noise,
bicycles, the acquisition of holy music.
Someone or nothing catches
a catacomb of moods.
Glass perhaps, between hallucinations.
Our Poem of the Week submissions are currently closed – a new call for submissions will open shortly. We are accepting submissions for our other regular features: MONOGRAPH (a group of poems by a single author) and New Voices (poets aged 18-30 who have yet to publish a full collection).