by Nicholas Boever

Breath, my field hold
flower. Lung, flutter wing;
hand hover, itch eyes. Scratch

color: raw light sore
weeping. I say allergic,
or call sight sour

seed to orchard. Bracken
nest, a lark staunch to keep,
but I beg to let go.

 

[Nicholas Boever graduated from the New Hampshire Institute of Art’s MFA program in Creative Writing and sold his soul to corporate marketing to rent a house on a lake to write in. While the lake isn’t always there, the writing continues. When he’s not writing he’s busy trying to turn throat sounds into words.]

←          →