Author: G H

silt, sand, dust, grit I say falling up to the bead of the eye I first opened decades ago screaming about the new air blowing up these lungs suddenly I see now

add a sun to the menu to scald the stomachs constricting bite-sized neighborhoods, wash the details down with a fined merlot tuned for a blinding toilet

melting upwards for the sake of a Newton, so sweet the earth’s filling, masticated exclusively for our plate, staring back like a penny on a dull lid

where are the minds windmilling from the shoulder of the road, upkeep of appearances costs my dear, they who see constantly inflate outside the economy until popping and we gather their litter

for the tree on fire still provides heat, perhaps a spark of joy to pit shirt sleeves tangled in the water line slithering across the car’s hood shining

the number of time seems incorrect against treated wood and galvanized screws framing a hook of shoulders entering bobs of data before an inflating backdrop

with rivers stopping, diving underground before being pronounced at the mouth, there is a see to be crossed, last call across the banks, account withdrawn

perhaps a new river found in the living room can foam many mouths staking blocks of wilderness at the edge of the tiles where temperature falls on its own schedule

organs fail on paper, valves too loose for pressure pointed from every face lifting and falling along unevened sidewalk, a snowflake of a stain reaching across the chest’s logo

still counting nearlys, the margin is cluttered, solidi stacked against the door, rare when one is not one, kissing every mouth on the escalator