John Myers

*

PERMISSIVE OF THE FUGUE STATE

A fever isn’t confident
in its intimacy
but should be. A pinwheel
and wind. Permissions’
quit. I hold onto bees
like I mean it.
In the thunderbolt

I see you as you are.
Lubricant leaks onto your
back and shoulder. Traction
is required. Because our galaxy
is a near perfect spiral,
it’s hard to remember
to apologize

for being empress. That you
sleep inelegant
and alone as anyone.

*

THREE POEMS

1.
This is what hunting feels like. Heard,
the horse sips at the river of glass figurines
that I built myself for just this reason.

2.
This flower
is bleeding right
onto pillbugs.

3.
I’ll need it in the original German.
Our paper machine is broken
from too much unhouseable sadness.

*

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