by Robin Arble
I weave my way through folded cemeteries, twisting symmetries of excavators blocking my way—though measure of vulgarity in equal part a nursery rhyme.
Shaving my face over an empty bowl: each day father apart, the clue accruing under our noses.
What’s an equal comic to an adventurous measure? Last summons of a nursery rhyme.
Garbage collects along stressed edges, where bare-chested nurses rattle into play. Rattle? Play? This dirt used to be snow.
Flags waving silently over an ocean (which?), on even in the middle of the night. Who forgot to turn this key off when they left? Who was the last to leave?
Next to nothing to show for it, imitations slide into the street on sneaky sheets of ice. Sticky keys make for great discoveries, the chocolate in the ice box melting into snow.
Asymmetries hunger to lend themselves, a disruption in the theater of things. Hunger makes for great advice, but don’t take our word for it.
[Robin Arble is a poet from the Pioneer Valley of Western Massachusetts. Their poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Door Is A Jar, Anti-Heroin Chic, Brazos River Review, and Overheard Magazine, among others. They study literature and creative writing at Hampshire College.]