Arsenic Lobster poetry journal |
Issue Twenty-six Summer 2011 |
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TEXT MESSAGES Vincent Spina I Listen. The message on the screen is for you. My hope is that you take it over, plan something in the margin or in the interim to make it yours. Look. The many texts you have sent stand silent, gliphed black to rock walls painted in reds and yellows. Judas trees bleed where once an alga ocean slept —distance and the braying of a desert burro content to graze on what the landscape wills her. II Here mementoes twist about your knees like the vines of a strangler fig around the limbs of its victim tree. Blue green algae drape the sofa. Moss steals from the basement into your bones. Then, the itinerant pang of sorrow rolls back the forest lianas as an echo emerges from the cleansed desert stones —whose or for what the message doesn’t say; it is only a dream, these are only poems. III A recent crisis has arisen in the sandwich you have swallowed for lunch. It sticks somewhere in the blueprint you are unrolling. A poem in winter hangs like a cylinder from a tree. From a basement window I see you grey through bands of drifting snow, glossing the white screen, reading me into the line. |
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