Spring Poem

Word’s best dot a golden apple

In the sand of skies, box in hand

Her here with this soul at the pump

A derelict to the world he made being

Dapper, fat, alive, and shrieking.

My dense hurrah I missed it

In my bustle or my trestle (whatever gender)

Missing. That’s the fact­­––springing

From the forest of deeds in costume

Ready to be bitten as a busy architecture

Takes a breath from its host

And mimes a love in money.

Lines

No vernacular psychosis is a hideout.

Chenille shade dogs rule the junk planet.

The nest emanates from a superceded power,

Human Beings able to fly.

Steel strut bars and towering bolted

Triangles requited by the shape of time

When to be free was to be guilty.

Contributor

Cole Heinowitz

Cole Heinowitz lives in Brooklyn and Annandale-on-Hudson and teaches English Literature at Bard College. Her chapbook, Stunning in Muscle Hospital, came out from Detour Press in 2002, and her second chapbook, The Rubicon, was published by A Rest Press in 2007. Her poems can also be found in The Poker, Highway Robbery, 6X6, HOW2, Factorial!, and in the collection Free Radicals. “A Birthday for Francis,” a one-act play written with Jack Collom, was serialized in The American Drivel Review.

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