593 Readings | 2 Ratings
“I’m alone in the…”
I’m alone in the tourniquet of shade in
the garden watching apples assail space
with the way they punctuate it.
They’re so good at angles you mistake them for
shadows. Hanging there:
poetry grows on trees.
Kristin is Beautiful
/ in a way I imagine my mother was in her 20s. / / Her hair is so black it shines blue. / / I am on my third Miller Light at Mitzel’s, / /…
Farmers move / / market-hooved— / / grab grain from the trough. / / Invention flattens a faded name / / how wire pins a hand-hold,…
Odysseus… go forth [to Switzerland]… sacrifice [stuff]… journey home … and … [die]. / -Tiresias; The Odyssey,…
More by Thomas Gibney
Brooklyn by way of Piedmont
I’ve been to Asheville. Maudeville. Dollywood. / The vaudevillian neon ache, the cannibal notions of a circus / population fucked up on groupthink…
It’s like we’ve said before: earth won’t fluff / its cushions for us, why should heaven? / Idiocy makes for good talk, but / / banter alone…
Currywood. Running. Noon. Bright.
Around the apricots. Damascos. That’s Spanish for. / The breeze. Hissing in my. Where did my breath. / I need it back. I’m running. The water. Tell…
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