← v20n2, Fall 2021
Poetry · Volume 20, Number 2

Yellow Rug, Let’s Go!

Kropotkin used the same

slingshot that David used

to strike Goliath. There were

eighteen, nineteen,

twenty-eight corpses until they were

ironed. The ironed ones withered.

I have hard, round pins

in my eyes. Angels eat

leathery snakes and race

in shoes. The waiters get dustier

every day. I’m writhing like

a bee. I’m also sighing

like a bee. Tisserie, tisserie,

this is a plain croissant.