← v19n2, Fall 2020
Poetry · Volume 19, Number 2

Watch the Lame Beast Turn

it must be pure, but not a proof—

a glass waiting, tied as fret-lens

to the field’s scabby haunch—

without war comes

nothing burning, shadow-leavens

in their tollhouses

lean against that spacious drum—

its resinous anthem—

contagious, as every act affirms—

in the eaves & at the altar, the /I/

bears a pilot’s breath

taken deep through clear flame—

house-to-house go

the ripe kings with their candles—

I set the traps—

at vespers, for the ferrous dead—