Arsenic Lobster
poetry journal |
Issue Seventeen Summer 2008 |
|
The Forgery of Heaven Carand Burnet Granted, this frost might as well be any piston with the wind grating so it could harden the lungs lovingly down Park Ave crystalline roars and lion entryways I know a woman who only wants to be transparent like the air her chest throbs so it graphs the rib-canyons but she prefers it to pound it reminds her of existence at four in the morning she is there for the people that dial in too late extracted from leaf veins entombed and cloistered in ashen facets depression is translucent florescent like the filmy leaves, not black, what splendor is in the fern's spindles breaching like a foamy crest searing in, reeling out, even the birch can count it's own rings and feel that thing in the room Its time to come in the same way we came out- With no white ever in our eyes. |
|
About Carand Burnet |