Poetry
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The nest emanates from a superceded power,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 HeinowitzCole 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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