Some things are lifted.
was the first
A pistol and a tree.
is no finality
but the trashy start
of what dreams come
Out of the brush it shot its small story
and brightly wingless didn't fall. Quick
accident I see now we are dressed in this
new flesh. Windows are figures loved for
what's behind them: a hand relaxed or a bit
of speech. Little motion or force.
The sun will take care of this later.
All Sing on the rocks weather reports stuff hypos into working order. Trailed far locomotive arcane shepherd made new in the trooping dark. Pigeons thus sabotage floats lands on the common warning hidden in willows monked in long grass..
"For like a gun is touch."
and even this
to get the hell out of here
and turns my head
at some sound.
The same blood
marks and is good
with the sun
redundant and warm
for these ravening
A child leaving, as whatever animal weds to
easy flesh; the stripping night makes songs.
Even lights are wanted. Cold at the wrong time.
Fasten and say it this way: however you always
shed. The red I couldn't buy still on display.
Your sickening love of glamor
and mine of damage
today a real tornado touched.
I wash last night out of me with this one.
What attacks is made simple by direction. Simple windows.
A chain. Another motion.
Poems by SUNDIN RICHARDS have appeared or are forthcoming in COLORADO REVIEW, INTERIM, VOLT, and WESTERN HUMANITIES REVIEW, where he took the 1999 Utah Writers' Prize for poetry. He lives in Salt Lake City.
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