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March 24, 2021 / barton smock


In my dream jaw my dreamboat’s jawbone

In my flood a sober seesaw
In crows a kind of waiting 
meant to receive the balloons of the strangled

In a film ghosting a film, In the church of rolling our own

In mannequins where small things kneel that are living

In jigsaws of the crucifixion and in the ideas my veins 
give to lightning

In Ohio in my left hand what is elsewhere lost in a broken rabbit 

In the city the building thinks god will jump

In the nothing nothing leaves


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