Author: G H

lack mounts one syllable, a minor offensive on the tongue, rusty scissors cut a philodendron shoot, fist swaying in the breeze catching sunlight through cracks, years guaranteed to bring less or your money lack

I’ve never met a human / wait for more / there is none / all eyes on the wrung above / should there be movement of this species / it may come when there are no choices remaining / the quiet hiss of us reclining to feed the brush

stop the sign making a second cousin of that alphabetized horizon, long, sinewy arm reaching l’ objet when legs were speed rotating the earth, also a marble was the floor, sun and second eye

measuring the age requires a ruler as sharp as a shiv to cut wide collective knots where ease erases detail, live long elsewhere and one may outpace metered incisions, delivered precisely indirect on the minded stoop

to have a head in the galaxy means a neck to twist on as eyes lag light speeded swirl, breathless measure dancing all, popping our top off

charcoal and sky depend upon length of the second / long / it settles with luxury of appreciated colour / light angled above the flood plain / time to blend rather than spill / short / it makes an exhibit delayed of every organ / separate when never surveyed whole / zip the code tight

deafening fold rises from gopher holes, the small have shrunk themselves further, finding baby teeth of an argument at the throat’s back still strained by a pale, withered dug, pre-confederation

I is the lot, the whole parts yard, step forward U onto river ice, she’s tricky this bridge, always out of season, thaw in February, freeze on Labour day, some days on all banks slipping down to the one current

goodbye old long worst friend overextending my welcome and hastening my stooped exit, you were a bright face at the start but now your jutted jaw is embedded in my chest, reeling me closer to the hole like a prize catch in ideal overcast

drift overland like a warming hand, apply pressure on the right conversation notes to melting earth, listen to us talk it up, degrees tacking towards the ceiling in our dim corner of the bang