from BRADE LANDS
August 20
the desk has beveled edges the sky has beveled grace
it knows what it knows without fear
that’s for me to envy
uncurling in the sour morning the light braces itself against windows themselves braced against
rain
thus coming to know each angle ratio and change
~~~
October 29
not beside myself
jade or element in a field yet unwakeful
then a living screen
world crystal display opening up and opining the present state ongoing
glare with jaundice / glared lace
I click on another sun
time for life done right this time
I claimed privacy as my own wore the fool’s sweater without meaning to
though what I meant was breathing with us
assigned a name like someone new
the glare off but knowing too
you can hold it in your hand forever
you can hold it beneath the screen the water fakes but then the bubbles rise up or do they just sit
there in the beyond music
never looking
does looking help
~~~
January 2
caught in a texture loop
thoughts the shape of afternoon
grin’ll atomize the dark
modeled by an old friend with new features
near futures
not walking over to you though because I’ve forgotten and besides those were the pages I left for
the other room
/ a thistle skips
texture asks for motion
otherwise it isn’t event only surface that I have taught myself to find inadequate perhaps in
error perhaps just to have a simpler life
if thought is motion language is this motion in an image captured
when captured the image smears
writing is the smear brought to the pitch of event
which wants to be unsmearing
if you ever saw the image unsmeared the faces would erupt uncontrollably act limitless have you
once caught a friend floating away
there’s a soul in each image
it must flee itself it must stay out of sight
late the page goes darkening
face hazard to take care of someone else’s plants
with hours going off
they must be counterfeit or else exhibit sweeter unreason
still abjection’s rise
inside life arrives too soon
I’ll divide trust-in-itself into sherbet-colored packets to pass hand over hand over hand
all the way to you
to no syllables shaking alone
knocking on the door for safety
and my ray is stale
[faceless hazard / hazard’s face]
~~~
Peter Myers is a poet living in New York. His recent work has appeared in Denver Quarterly, Qui Parle, jubilat, and elsewhere. He received an MFA in Poetry from the Iowa Writers’ Workshop.