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

Negative Peeled Back from a Cardboard Album

For a single moment,

soldiers don’t cross

the path. My eye

glare of water, of blind

surface, of skimming

a text. My eye

chooses three

overcoats hanging

from a wire.

They are brittle.

White shouldered.

Their path will be paper.

Wind attracts one,

turns a sleeve slightly.

Officers are sleeping

outside the frame. Outside,

the planes tick with heat.

There is a snake

bleeding out the mouth.

A hose leaking water.

Tongue to teeth, I feel

a question: slight, slighted—