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.

Crow Calling

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
joyful syllables
          if you wanted

Dead Rabbit

rotting with
rain-muddled fur
bisecting a crack
on the hot sidewalk
bad omen

the chinese might
think as flies
gnaw a crater
gluttonous for its
stopped heart


Andrew reads three poems

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.