2 Poems


The air, so

dry and still

is not ours.

Hard to imagine

such noise,

already gone.

Distance, speed,

repetition, and still

no way to get

what you want.

There’s a circle

around the square.

They call it a ring,

a feeling uneven.

So it’s no wonder

I’ll trade time

for money, escape

into comity.

This memory


the present.

An algorithm

copies the key

and swallows it

with water.

Relieving beauty

from truth,

a thin stream

for each of us.


I was made to love me;

live for aggravation.

The hack. The paw. Some song.

Of ore and soft toxic flecks.

Not hard as in not now.

So when? Slow motion:

again and again,

beyond invertebrate.

The real is tethered to the sad.

The making, the pathetic.

We can’t recuse the dead,

their unfilmable mess.

But there’s more time than that.

Don’t worry. You’ve got this.

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Andrew Weatherhead