Josh Fomon


My hammocked tongue slides
onto your lapgrass listen

to the shadows buckling.
If I found you a stomach

would you fork the wind
pangs? If in the dark I would eat

don’t look at me. Bombilate
like you are a slantwise

cube hovering over
a mountain. Would you spin in shades

rippling onto your peaks
you vociferous golden lark? Into

my hoof I want to salivate
on the loose

stringed fibers. You sun
in a naked day

let me be a heuristic mime.
Insert the inert follicles

pulsing through a boat. Pull
the wolf to my eyes string

cumbered splinters.
I could gnaw

I could suckle
your ankles.

Dismember the apostrophe.
I am here. I am meadow.

To bleed shrill
the mud full of iron.

I would plant my feet plume
a clunky trough. Like trees weep

I smell your jaw.
Do you sit linted

as shadows chase after revenants?
If teeth could be hungry

as a heart mirrors
would be transparently reflective.

As a meadow I am susceptible
and you could picnic beyond

a melting sky. I try to skew more
vastly when you peel like storms

of glass but there is only so much
I occupy like a compass. Bloating

with love windows
my path in all directions

the deer would become bitter.
If you rip the parts

take my blooming bones.
The raspy tractor echoes

the dreams wrapped around
each rib. When the wind yawps

if I gave you a sickle

would you tickle my ear?

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