Oct/Nov 2016 Poetry


by Joel Fry

Image courtesy of the British Library Online Photo Collection


I can criticize laughter if I want to.
I can dip myself into your narrow acumen,
all the weight you carry in your brain,
which weighs nothing to me. Does an increase
in intelligence mean an increase in awareness?
Asking is my fault. And by my fault I see the horse
in the painting and the pasture of stars outside,
which is background without any other perspective.
I hope my wishes and my pleasures never meet.
I draw from your mouth an old phantom.
No one can hear me descend to your warm
depths, least of all you. My gaze gets lost
in my focus. It follows the houses I see whenever
I want to see. The woods I imagine repeat
a breeze my mind can almost feel.
Tell me what I'm doing wrong on the right side
of longing. You're on a trip to visit the world
with me and no one can tell us no.


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