Matthew Mahaney



A harmed swan wears its wound on the left. When it sweeps the lake red it is
facing west. Its strain clones an axe-maker’s music, pinched silk in the sleeve
of my ear. Some greening of the flesh is coming, is an obstacle unraveling.
Under frost is something hesitant. White claws by the hundreds malfunction.



The ash farm unfastens its fence. Soon the soil has hatched a litter. Each in
its own channel unfurls and flexes. Their chatter makes an almost-message. A
bat’s eye viewed. Seeds pressed black in forest light.



A shape unnamed offends. The snow stained neutral. The fawn now warm.
In the plural space, machinery is taught to mimic how a skeleton unbuckles.

An animal dismantles. Softly, each taxonomy undoes its seamless structure.
There is a splash before the final absence. Can an orchid simply ossify? How
an organ floats. How unflattering.

A small impression steams from some new corner of a cloud.


%d bloggers like this: