Issue 227, Winter 2018
The line, its sleek ark. Stow the creatures where the calendar
can’t snatch them. Coal is unreasonable in all its phases.
Into the open pearls, I was, at first, sure I’d read. The coasts of it,
vast hithes of what is generally regarded as pleasure. Gnosticism, its
thick, deictic hull. The line tendered above the chapel
& such periphrastic floods. I want, she said, you to see the light on
this particular hill. (This was later.) So I queued to experience.
Prayer glossed in & out, a brute lacquer. Tell me
not what you want but what the line measures: the wingspans
of ravens or doves; Judaism; the etymology of entity,
condensed on the cool glass pane. Did you find it in the avenue,
did you just take it. The risks of months, their thin leaves
superimposed. One hides another. There was a great glow
there, she said, gesturing precisely into where oxygen had been.
And say a student proposes, not justice, but the just,
at the moment the siren pierces the street’s dowsing monosyllable.
You would have admired the wildflowers, too. The psychology
of doors, aberrations of (q.v.). I woke to the gardener
rapping on the bedroom window. Let’s press some riddling prime,
smooth the holiday’s gay chains. Because here we are together
beneath the brass key of rain, a thousand sacred