BY Andrew Mobbs
afternoon above dead ice melting, pigeons drinking
from the muck. she unraveled on the poplar branch
like a newborn cyst. she winced when the first gust
tested her. she worried about spring cycles until her
brain turned brown. the sun is heating the roadside
sewage stench, not a sentient green thing in sight.
wait for a certain shade of gray
in the sky; choose the loneliest
place to perch. the deader
the better (kingdoms are meant
to be seen from naked treetops).
your message is clear: opacity. say,
you tickle my blood and make me
think murky. say, your footprints
are symmetry in the frost
next to my clumsy ones.
i want to clip your tongue,
teach you about words, okay?
teach you too much black can be
off-putting, your caws can be
if you wanted
bisecting a crack
on the hot sidewalk
the chinese might
think as flies
gnaw a crater
gluttonous for its
Andrew Mobbs: blond-headed, whiskey-lipped, tiny Neptune eyes. Modern day Mongolian nomad. He writes poetry about things on which people step. He doesn't own a pair of tennis shoes. He digresses, he digresses.