found a seat at the memory gate weaving sounds together I mean fingers (mine) sometimes doing sounds though at times just gestures or gloss ice on the idea of snow plucking out samples one by one during Sherwin-Williams visitation hours a document of the body’s weakness an archive of the body’s frequency if you’re here to lose your music don’t worry it was gone before dusk or its likeness made a misprision of certainty sure I remember those guys overtly rude amidst the willows perhaps weeping or was that a projection of the beauty I see in others that I claim I’ll never possess though granted an eternity no less limited than the one I have already so are you happy mom are you happier dad aster rover beaches doodads rivermouth bird of information a wing can bend but can never break a dog can bark a sun can give its light to those who will betray it (me) when the night (you) crushes the mind’s template with its boots teeth headcrown forces external to those visions proper to the temple that burns up the back of your head’s inverted idea of Earth thwarting ribbons floaties & other portraits of mirth left out in the rain for like twelve years so that when you say “fire” in twelve seconds all that’s left is what I was too late to say to only show weakness when it’s too late to do so
Peter Myers is a poet living in New York. His recent poems have appeared in Fence,
Hot Pink Mag, jubilat, and Nomaterialism. He has written essays and reviews for
Annulet, Full Stop, and Chicago Review. A chapbook is forthcoming from above/ground press.
the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan
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