Monday, 8:08
BY tony Mancus
the living room has a rush
of furniture—a rash of wool and wood
you set down the tea cup
and all the moths circle
it's a dust-up, a canyon
of simple dotted flapping
my newspaper is only good
if you use it to wrap other things
in its putzy headlines
like: An Atom Mothered Your
Bible, or Brangeline Why
Can't You Be True?
Sort of contrary,
the song of the century
the way talking birds
can summon our tongues
while so few of us
bother to whistle.
Wednesday, 4:36
halve the sleep emotion
of weeds calved in the ocean
sway within the joint
and wood swell
as the words solidify
you think
your thinning
concerns can
be stuffed into a quarto—balled-up
and unquartered.
an echo wearing the stamp of sleepy motion:
have the color nearest
last night's conversation
on hand
& wall the towels
for our freshened up
morning faces.
all the earth
we know is surface.
one round drumming sound
halves the sleep you've gathered.
sewn in, each body
itches the dirt.
Tony Mancus is the author of a handful of chapbooks, most recently City Country (winner of the Seattle Review chapbook award). In 2008, he co-founded Flying Guillotine Press with Sommer Browning; they make small books. Also, with Meg Ronan he curates In Your Ear, a reading series in DC. He currently works as an instructional designer and lives with his wife Shannon and three yappy cats in Arlington, VA.