4 Poems

1.
I didn’t know casements flying open at random
was a thing  Or that this night had a hole in it
through which I might crawl to make myself
a sandwich in only my undies by the
little light above the sink  If fire be set
to my bleary feuilleton, so be it  This house is
seventeen shades of burned bridge, my
head a repository for tape hiss and ache and
what’s the word for not–knowing–where–
the–hell–you–are–while–standing–amid–the–
roosting–pigeons–and–rustling–trees–of–
Greenpoint?  That Because these days wherever
I step grass grows, but from now on I’m going to say
it like it’s a good thing I’m going to say it like
there’s a thumbnail for it I can post on my retina
Tell me I’m touching an otter when I’m really
touching a seagull  This is a sunset, you say
Naw, I’m pretty sure it’s an otter

 

2. This is a sunset it is all mixed up with grass and
street lights about to come on and little bits
of quietude  It is good when I close my eyes and there
are not three car lengths between me and my
imminent death I think probably it’s hard to tell
how much of this sentence is endorphins and how
much of it is feathers: Make it stop make it stop
make it stop make it stop  And if I try to
define it or something then I don’t need to believe it
What I need to believe is, beyond semantics I am
not the sort of person I am writing about
This person just opens a door and the afternoon
comes pouring out  Still, I do not understand why
I am armpits-deep in algorithms or what
the shape is that’s created by the space
between two people  At the edge of the park
the trees are flapping their limbs in panic
Somehow, it is the most perfect music

 

3. I feel like there is not even a hallway in this book
to stalk menacingly down in pursuit of someone
only footsteps and I feel like there is no such thing
as writing books only having feelings and being buried
under them  I come from a place where all the phones
were turned off a long long time ago and before
you were particles you were something only birds
could sing  I feel like we make good stones and like
it’s a curse to be tough and not exposed and
like it’s strange to be carried around in some idiot’s
pocket  But by the time you read this I’ll be
buried under my own life on a really clear day in August
This I know, I know too that my hand is all one piece
It is one piece that crumbles all over the floor it is
a dark, oval, cartoony thing where my heart fits,
my heart saying Are these curves the shingles
on the roof of a house or the waves at sea?
I don’t know, heart, either way we’re floating

 

4. Having feelings and being buried under them
is Stephen Dorff in Somewhere  But what if you’re
Ryan Gosling in Drive?  That’s having a heart murmur
on the moon, bro  If your current melancholy is an
actual lemon meringue pie it means you’ll die
shoeless in Canada  But what if, out walking one
night, you’re mysteriously pelted with a shower of
turquoise gems?  Aw shit, son, that’s parking
your sedan in the tow–away zone behind the flow of
time itSELF  This weather someone velcro’d
to an apple is seriously wonky  I want a new one
T says wanting a new weather is wanting a new
apple and I’m like That doesn’t even make sense, babe
Outside, everybody’s hands are tv commercials
in which cleaning products are enabling white ladies
to read more  Any minute now, the waters will
surround us, they’ll carry away all those clean white
ladies, they’ll want answers  We won’t have any

 

————————

Alban Fischer has designed books for over twenty-five independent presses. He lives in Grand Rapids.