Four Poems
Mitchell Glazier
It’s bronzy August and I need this to be all over. / Most of my poems are shaped like crows, / so what’s eating you?
It’s bronzy August and I need this to be all over. / Most of my poems are shaped like crows, / so what’s eating you?
A man spills a red solo cup down my shirt like hands. Hands bury in my skin. The speakers bury in my skin. I have never felt farther from the sky, or from my own spit.
every great sadness has occurred because someone / decided fate with their bare hands.
my body is an american / casket, shove the corpses / through my eyesockets til they spill / from my mouth
When my children walk by, it will be like looking into the sun. Your children will have to bow their heads. My children’s eyes will be the color of electric blue icebergs.
I want to walk in where I walk in & not think about me or you or anyone else we know—I want my recycling to be perfect.
my angst is still young / and highly flammable / something interrupted / meant to be read out of order / one chord change to another
You halt the flow of traffic in a crosswalk to retrieve a fallen penny, / cheer your good fortune, and whisper: landmine.
I am trying to come out to my father / but all he wants to talk about / are the 1985 Chicago Bears
Before roosting in the city, starlings dive—
five thousand deep in flock. Like cells they follow the
law of localization. Bound by surroundings. Step into a
crowded elevator and take on
and a vague behind-the-eyes tired from reading about destruction until after midnight
Today I kiss her knuckles & we lumber home like mammoths.
Lyrical lines of color dripping down: a chemical skyline.
Is this new relationship self-sabotage in disguise, or is it the cure?
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