It is that puddle my eyes
try to sink into as if
the fin of a page
would leap from the unconscious
through jaws of a silver screen.
Bite into the wrong red meat
and the eclipse will pickle
you in ancient know-
ledge. After all, Mimnermus
coughing the clockwork spelled out
the still which of now. For ex-
ample, say the poet’s words
were the bones. Would you
play fetch with the dalmatian?
bury them with the peaches?
All you’re left with is Ginsberg
and a fruit as orange as
a read picture book.
No air—just a black howl in-
to Frost’s snow patch. Our paper’s
thinner than the ocean plates
and the steak of continents
that bleed out boneless:
you must have seen this coming!
Your flashlight has burnt out with
the moon and the batteries
are between the ragged claws
of “real” writers, so
I’ll try to swim to the surface
with stones in our pockets.

Originally published in White Wall Review 41 (2017)