nathanjz2003@yahoo.com

The only place I have been
is here, nowhere,

a series of letters that dream
of correspondence,
the ghost mailbox.

I loved those terrifying wind chimes
just before a summer storm.

I’ve hidden years in a city
mumbling que te vaya bien.

My permanent address?
The warm dent in the pillow
where your head rests.

The storm cuts to poorly-lit
skirmish scenes, twitching
strobe, rolls its boulders,
a cannonade over ticking
oil jacks, miles of grain—

and what part of me
is me?—

meaning I guess
I carry the carol of death,
an heirloom in a chest.

CLOUD 9

Sometimes I go there. Sometimes
there I am riding the light.

Other times in the spacious sea
it vanishes.

Until it returns
light as a rest note
to sometimes drop water on people
on dogs and baseball games
so roses flourish
and weeds and mosquitoes
and fills the creeks
and shaped like anything
a most unreal castle.

I have never really been.

But I do dream
early some mornings
when I’m half-awake
of the impossible.

More Reads
Uncategorized

On Dressing Margaret Cavendish

Danielle Dutton
Uncategorized

Redbeard’s Castle

Victoria Nelson
Uncategorized

“A Real Person Who Has Real Thoughts and Feelings.”

Stephanie Palumbo
More