Daniel Flosi
From
still in this place where there is no sun






didn’t    know it   then                we walked

     right into her    angry   mouth

acorns                          dripped                       

roll

downhill      into another   hill

subsumed           every    thing

   we held dear    this    summer

rattlehum    of Subarus

   Toyotas in the parking            lot

        cornerstore    dreams     liquor

lies still   in this place

          where there is    no   sun

     never was  the stone            crouched

     you crouch      on has memory

is memorial    the settlers

   that settled   these hills subdued

  imbue with      power

unable to find    a simple     line

  through                      this                 hill

O Avalo

      you                   should                         

know

we       didn’t mean                  to     

look

then again          the insectuous

  death  rattle           slow             drum

of marching                     toward

kids                smoking            pot

don’t                                                                    

hear it

      instead                look us                   

straight

      in the eyes            tell us

to      fuckk-off        home

y o u    s   t   r   o   l   l        

plumb       into

the   depth          of  her

    angry     mouth black

hole       subsuming every      living

of course    the    footpath

      long        eroded                                     

                     y  o  u               p  a  s  s  e  d

right in     willing

      is this a virtue      i wonder

   the      final        crickets

continue           to    scratch

      their     foreign  hymns 

then   all worms     froze 

          the black  maw       filament

detonates          dark side

  of 5 AM     divergent narrow      path

       along this     sloping     slant

becomes  what we would   become

      if we believed    in     anything 

     nonexistent         exhausted            

exuberance 

despite  many known     mistakes

Paul’s wife     measures  calmly

    two cups      fortuitous this   before

        work       soon a gland    would be

whittled  away    by tumor          until only

      just  tumor     at the funeral

some  will whisper

about       the coincidence

   of death             comparably

          Conspiracists

are everywhere        after all

  wound   between      tall   trees

    you        whisper             something

     offer            everything

though                  these           seeds

steeped         in worry

   are  no   longer  dormant

deadslipped    like mud

      between  fingers     of pressed    hands

guided      by   conversation

          not      light                     fickle

   though                it    was

taken     then by       the  beak     

crack of   husk             breast  puffed        

still     unsatisfied    clutches

     letters   of April           to her chest

[here you think        oyster

say   solvent]  this pain   is the desire        

to be

     decent       just enough      of course

spilled  from      the   doorway

this robbery        truth         asunder

    washed  away     to   the editing

    ascribes the  (f)lies     of

freedom

          a certain  garden    looks weary

        as bed    unmade     consider

yourself

baffled     spilling over steering    wheel

   s  t  o  p  p  e  d       s o p p i n g       a   l   o   n   e

          that’s     one    way           to    succumb 

this   time     of year        we see        

black

hawk   vultures             dead

on the side   of the road     at        intersections

      school   playgrounds   across     the street

    from the     grocery     store             

what

do they     whisper            doubtless

it’s about  worship   even   in this 

                                                 body

          process requires    congregants  visits

   to his grave  count   one. . .  two. . . 

many     mistaken   as eagles

his   clock of   birds   every

hour unnamed   soldiers   on

    still        he’s been wiped   away like

        masticated stain      he died

    this          time         not         alone

we  carried  him    with  the kitchen    

sink

       across      turf  where

        every   blade   has been   walked  upon

     a   hundred  thousand    times

before

   we  could’ve        w     a     l     k     e     d

instead  we   drove        what   impels us

         as  long  after   as    the will

.  .  .  .  .all this                        

time

      not  even      a piece     of   dirt    to  hold

the  turned-to-stone  lions         watch

   keep watching   as we pack

         everything         we       can’t        sell

     October’s    howling       darkness

up          this hill           threatens

    the   house        empty       now

      this year       every year

          wraith  screams       could   be

toppled            head      stones

i                         could’ve         taken

         b e t t e r         c      a      r     e

what  remains       besides

         a      severance    package

           6-dollar  check   tucked    between

     your footsteps    sloughing   down the    hall

   with     empty           coffee     pot

now

            that         you’ve   discovered

     that   fish    sing     to    each      other

you   can   tell   us      how

        they   sound    like  the              

foghorn

    a     quarry          at    midnight

how      they shuffle     their       fins

        fins    like feet    in the   sand

tell us  how    they saw       rocks

       between        jaws           gnashing 

       still   those      crooners

croon                 fission    

       f      i      s      s      u      r      e      s

the    trochaic        arc reaches

a final   resting        place

        everything        i build     will crumble

my fingers  are    made of  sand

masticated                                    vibrations

    acoustic           gardens

     sticky

with milkweed       dogbane

whiskey   stains

tell us      how       they      sing

how it            sounds

like   the      snapping       neck

  moth wings   sting

     morning                     grass

   tell us             how      it sounds

       like the    drying  riverbed

   walking             through      joinery’s

         mouth        shelves       full

            metal        motionless

    this     settler’s      room               left

             to   ferment      to    forget

   the  moon   is always      

   diminishing

undone                    accumulating

the         choralwork     of             dust

                         mahogany        floorboards  

diluted        taken     from    hills

          tempted       by                 foreign

                             tongues

salt      fish        seatbelt        strapped

      too  tight    must  be   what it feels

like     to be              named

by     occupation

like       

               the          helicopter         seeds

that                 spiral

the   poet          spins

     spins           all        kinds  

of             beauty

even        especially           that

         which the     rest       of   the       world

does        not        see

  they  put    you   here     Riverside

   Cemetery          circa  1891              drugged

   into   someone else’s    economy

     propped     against     the      prairie

leaning   closer   to   the   river

     listen   to   whispers   blow

ash    from   palm

never    mind    the   appetite

                     there’s     a groove   to     forge

   to    plow   this   flower       bed

out       of       existence     i don’t

          know   how  to sit  with   the   living

     still   i    try  with  you     sitting     on this  

button

    hill      undressing       the sky

      with  our    thoughts                 our   eyes

  grass          simmers            words            

loom

like      web     woven      catharsis

      her      expectations        my     expectations

        have     settled    a  little    at   this      age

    at    least        that’s     what      she     said

       with          her                 smile

then     a          crack                slap

    screams      a        wraith        stolen       

moon

        a               squirrel                   corkscrews

       across      the      lawn

          just      like  that        it’s over

           gone

           stopped  sudden   in  sodden    tracks

         fox     looking       looks     at   us  asks

     her   abiding      question     that   that   kind

         of   distance         rather        proximity

     brings      asked        with      her         eyes

       carries       the   weight       of   a        .45

          peaked      over           witch      hazel

  from      neighbor’s       doorstep

          the   fox 

        her   question   repeating

  here    beside   the  lake  berries    together

        beguiled  by   language

        we   learn that    we only    relearn   

               e   v   e   r   y   t   h   i   n   g

same   way    snail   crossing

       moss  sponge     feels    it     has  been

               down      this      loin         before

here               the    oriole      picks      clean

                fruit      flies    of    summer  ( rotten

nectar)

   we            relearn       each            other

     in   the    silence      of  this     cold   not

quite

          turned      to     evening         evening





betweenthehighway CCLA 0.4
wherever
visible and invisible
streets meet