Inside the beacon, someone
found the blue eyed lamb hung;
throat frilled as gunnysack,
in the first field of the coming sun.
Atlas and Axis disengaged;
both strung and trapper.
Music of death-rattle.
Selena’s tracks between used
rubbers, and chocolate wrappers.
How many nights before death,
caught in mooring rope,
the stars washed in so low
a tall man might knock his head;
the moon stooped enough to hang his coat.
By Zachary D’mitri
The mountains seem to climb one another,
scrambling and stumbling as if to run frantically and clean into the sky,
and all the planets in alignment
couldn’t bend to form a smile as wide as mine.
“I don’t want
I don’t want
just us in the room,
cheeks as red
as his lips,
I was never able to isolate it like that.
Sleep is an exercise in solitude.
Death is the cap and gown.
……..We sleep a lot.