← v13n1, Spring 2014
Poetry · Volume 13, Number 1

Dream of the Morning Before It Split Open

I almost see your thumb

following the groove

like a river on an atlas.

Other men are peering from the slits

of tents as though the ash

light fixed them: silver

eyes opening in a pan of liquid.

What will you see

from your bottom bulb of glass?

The warp of August air

metalling the water?

Your name—like a father—calls you

from the engine. Oh. Step under

the wing: only a shadow blade.