ISSUE 3 · FALL 2009
Sigilism JOHN MYERS
Locks, to stop their turning the smell of the river where ducks preen into the first of the year and faces about.
Was it after ingesting the blue feather I would turn blue, like a peacock turns thistle gold, or when parabolas intersect heat lightning, even vaguely, and what if we were blond kisses, bound, taut, or a spring, a blue heron, the wake of her head, and what if twine had cuts, streams of disposable film, the clatter against our hush on the mute where brown, the hours stood together.
The school clocks glow at night, trains whistle, cats back- lit in a second-story window when the river proves no smooth water for reflection and defeat is a mattress outside the apartments join the sag of thirty-four years of heirloom roses along a span, a prune, a rotary phone. A bush so heavy with sparrows, it snows. |
John Myers is an MFA candidate at the University of Montana, where he is a Poetry Editor for Cutbank. John grew up in the Endless Mountains. His work has appeared in elimae and is forthcoming in ABJECTIVE.