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January 8, 2019 / barton smock

BLUE MIND \entries/

BLUE MIND \ entries /

and when the creatures came back they were all the same size and my son was still sick and I put my ear to my mother’s and asked for the maker of god-painted sound and my son was a hole and I was grief in a gravedigger’s dream and we ate I think apples there

I miss
of you

does art
lose everything
made visible

by grief

I don’t
on boats
in the devil

poor stone
to have never
been painted
(a child

becomes a place, forgets
being born
there is

(a second lookalike (angels

are ugly & some
know the sex
of your ghost (how birdly

of her
to un
the alone
in the jesus

of her legless

when little
of one is left
is born

my son’s
is not
far off

they struggle
in the water’s

between hearing thunder and seeing deer, the dying woman tells a story in a language she’s never spoken. I swear to use smaller words. ill, far. farm. in each of us, perhaps, is the lost faith of god. the bread of our anthill’s home.

hungry for kindness, each of us pretends to see the other’s hallucinations. I admire the backstroke of your perfect scarecrow and you the focus of my choking owl. when we see the same thing, be it mouse or frog, we chew to keep our hearing in place. to have you as a brother is to be alone. our father makes robots for our mother to mourn while our sister opens an eye in the blindfold’s mouth. rocks have the softest shadows. before I saw god, I saw god’s ear.

a toy, brief and doomed. cat sadness. oh there are days the kids say nothing beautiful. soon is a painting but when. of a ballerina leaving Ohio for a gas can. of god giving death

a blank puzzle. of how to dress if I’m ugly.

angel’s elbow
the mouth, oh body

you are a life’s
in one
language (when mom


mom says

(a clock to a bruise was a star

we had beautiful conversations but the earth was dying.

you remember god and I

god wanting
a child.

mother with her skin condition was at the chalkboard.
so alone / as to be / inherited

(we thought
in poems…

a doll
we said
a doll

pretending to miss its empty
of soap. (I was

to your

longlessness. art was the clock of the poor.

it is god until it hears its parents fight.

what her brain does to language could fill a tail with the dreams of a snake
some of which


my sleep
is my blood.

touch is the music of hell
said we

(sang mom

I lost my voice believing in ghosts and before that

spoonfed my brother until he tied me to a chair. this was the beginning of wanting my kids to play dead in front of the nothing my eyes could do. one sockless and one sick. not forever.

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