zafusy | contemporary poetry journal

Queriad

rivers away like Sanskrit

under your brow's

shelf you hadn't guessed

"apple," "path," "father"

encrusted

on the ancient drawn bow

unspeakable, spoken

child tongue of dreams

scratches you on glass, must be

why the effort tires my bones

in sleep, to awake miles away

asking what mineral knuckle

made the shapes below breath

and loyally scrapes the adamant

to facets, even as I try to toss it away

a die for others to play with

a sheep's knee-bone

has pollen, has prayers

W.B. Keckler

Howver

through holes

embryo pixilated

as pussy willow bones

narrow the shove

(resurrection)

fawning in suspicious ways

what crossed so many highways

parallel-veined

nomads click teeth

against the bowstring

time

drop lens

deal narcolepsy's

glasspaper shoreline

birds strut

into superficial

laxity, bright

donor

W.B. Keckler

Egg Thunder

One foot in the mucus of the Garden of Eden,

Dufus is my living love, my blue symmetry

shoes shattered in the mind of legendary speech.

Electronic signals shot through a pencil that

becomes warm brown as Egypt on the old paper

where epilepsy of form says it all. From.

I kiss your radio waves and dumb pulse.

Regions of infernal sound make me feel real

but your real sentences make me fall asleep.

Columbus is just a discolored dove. Stone.

What strikes the ear is a dippy discipline

crawling through my setae. Vivacious crayfish.

Burnt cream. A pardon to the migrant soul

which found itself swarming without. Eggs under.

Today you are stainless, the head's dulse.

W.B. Keckler