inside a tree's hollow
among the moist and
becoming
becoming
something else
at the foot of the
tree without shadow
sparrows take the breath
from a trapped
child
the convenience store
isn't all that far
its yolky light
a hovering womb
beets bounce liquid
fire on flagstone
Is this the gnome's life?
Will there be baths?
Pale smoke in your satchel
clam skins on
your kneecaps
The Winter Made Many Demands On Us
Coffins and storms
carried away
much that we loved.
The sky has joined us in our heads
an elegant rattling ensues
&
agony -
until the web between worlds splits
and scary shit comes out
There is no safe place
outside the tree fort
or Peter Pan's rec room
It's easier to take
with a nice chilly breeze
and a couple blankets on at night
Who's sitting here waiting for this cobweb
selling carpeting
from bankrupt motels
a slow reveal
exhibits from the school cabinets
a jellyfish could
unlock
the secret of immortality
recently returned
from a tanning products
convention in Nashville
green effulgence
or rejected swain
it's the 13th inning
after midnight
Right now I'd like to be
the reflection in a
mirror
of a lake outside a window
as a gnarly hand pops out
clutching
the bloodied white rag
of peace
You Climbed Party Face
No, that moon
the one way over there
I clung like
a biker's leather
pants in August
to it one desperate
night and forty
gazing down
on
slacing tadpoles
in giant construction
mudpond
broken things
more numerous
than fires
at the old Duncan Place
start with hearts
end with plumbing
squandered maps
found on backs of
fleeing meth mother's
legs dragging child
to next fruitless caper
You can find your dead
in oil streaks on
highway puddles
or seated immobile
among spent ketchup squibs
in a scowling
Hip Hop Chicken
I've gotten
my shit together
since I lost weight
and can easily slip
through windows
to steal copper
out of basement walls
Rupert Wondolowski lives in Baltimore and is the author of The Origin of Paranoia as a Heated Mole Suit, the namesake of his new band with Liz Downing, The Mole Suit Choir.
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