460 Readings


Troops scatter about
an alien surface. Where does this
temperature stack up against
the ice age? What sounds

do my gnawing teeth
make? We watch morning
flake. It’s a forward march
into the gleaming future

and it’s the rancid
bananas that keep us
from getting depressed.
I help to stabilize supplies.
What will I be able to crush next?
You can ski inside of me,

baby. I’m that kind of
brass. My finger-tips like
swinging in the low cloud,
learning about crystal stuffs.

They inflate but don’t thin. I radio out
for new nails and provisions, new
wandering tribes that will
meet us for gruel, carrying

their ancestral knowledge
back. They can’t crush what’s under
us or what melts. The general of my
floe troops has struck
fear into the hearts of

peepholes simply by
carrying snow. He doesn’t
hurt anyone. He fouls
up his aim on the regular.
It’s a grace he has in him,
letting peepers slip away.
Posted 09/01/11
This piece originally appeared in the poetry section of The Awl, http://www.theawl.com
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