← v8n1, Spring 2009
Poetry · Volume 8, Number 1

Lines

tell me

the smooth box

rendered by the gloved

hands of a mime

tell me

the spinning particles

between your foot and my foot

each propped on the railing

tell me that nervous inch

tell me yellow

that lines up nevertheless

perennials burning

for their lost house

tell me oxygen

from a cooler layer

unsuitable for

the breath you must take

to tell me

tell me

white butcher paper

the tongue wrapped

separate from the heart