Four

 

The Worry


I will learn
to slur words       slown tongues
sour, suppered clothing        laze
alive in excess of other peoples
the listless wandering worshipper's groan
flung around the bathroom
with wet ears, that insist on what they heard
shouting his mother's maiden name
     Cecilia!   Cecilia!
                                       Cecilia!
                                 Cecilia!
whispers his mother's first name
 Adonna,
             Adonna,                  Adonna,
                                       Adonna

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

the baywater beer


in the clouds shaped fish-shaped cloth
tulle cumulus head         two pupillary songs
of early practice
     watch turn toward fall
an aspirin trail of featherstones in grass
of owls lost           the surface gets the seagull
shove
in the sky space           fingers being chest
fish breathless over rail
a vision bag in the bay water crease
dog collar     coronal in the moon
be sewn      with its sonnet too
town tremors rotten orange
of purposed moon inside

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

from a law form


smash way in beer
smasher heartbreak lid
cold coil sits the side it
no face the fold comes to balm
a splash alarm a side of aluminum
the crooked door drops
meet Sam at his place drive
fingers into mug, wet window
bearing pitch
light enough not thinking it
out through space
suspensions draw at peak of day
I see the watch
no thanks in keeping strange
sealing aim under shirt
   the want for fair
     cowering       dreamt to do
        in five minute part

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

pyramids


incense, stalling, come in
on a tally offshot feeling,
can't see nothing, maybe a toe
in the head or a duet
with the lower wave
but nothing like to boogie,
not like habit, rein a slightly
different octave sum for one,
to look and hear your klutz
most amplified, from zen
to kindling squeaker, lobbed in,
stayed up, sent on high, you know
I ride to die but not enough to,
love for a plain thing flushed
down 5 ft. of spine, as it's written,
this lingam whips spies, the spinning
trips the gates of ghost worlds,
numerology does it best on
empty dawn, color ranges farther
flung per finger deeper in

 

 

 

 

 

 

Contributor

Morgan Vo

MORGAN VO lives in Brooklyn.

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