Arsenic Lobster poetry journal |
Issue Thirty-four Spring 2014 |
| Home | Current Issue | Contributors | Review | Order | Archive | Submission | About Us | Misty | |
Sand Mountain Andrew Cantrell Take where you’re moving a true girth of gray elegance, arc tan of wipers scraping windshield sky, trace fullness of early frost shaken from September dew. Flaking plateau ridge-stone channel, apricot-naked eyes a-dot box elder matrices soft autumn chill drape billowing lamplit dust: I can only promise not to come to you. Guide of whistle calls, foundry cores aglow from Trenton to Lookout. Six-pack by your knees and “Gloria” on the AM band, Sand Mountain chill slackening wire-strung night’s in- different tangle of gold-leafed trees. This is to remind you that you have a son. Foreman’s laugh, discrete and drunk, varnish of liquor and cheap wine’s vegetal haze. Thrown iron tracks describe a gradient south from mountainside to mill, and liquefying panes, fey lights guttering, still, presage afternoons of frost-dusked chapel light. Snap in your hand of slick-mossed stream rocks caught through a sill. This is to remind you. Endless scrape, finger’s careful echo across bones of routine’s read pages. Interval glare of atmosphere and eye caught once. At the gate a sapling winter pine, growing in this emptiness. |
About Andrew Cantrell Previous Poem | Next Poem |
| Home | Current Issue | Contributors | Review | Order | Archive | Submission | About Us | Misty | |