by Ece Apaydin
The episodic whiz of the plains. When two punk bees meet
linens are hugging on the rope. the blues have painted the whites
you are a linen murderer says mom. How manyth loss is this? She is
the nanny of the numbers
I am only sensing the fog rising from the house. I am hearing the acme
I am going to the market with my soul which the rain is grazed. this and that. fig basket
with the fugitive snake on my breast.
A world with foot catachresis with blind man’s buff with hide-and-seek
inverted chairs the checkers are on the trees a mechanical canary
I made it bleed with a hooked word on the papers. I took wing.
I wrapped it to the sky
my delusion it.
I am starting from God. I do not know what will appear. believe me I never know
I have already said farewell to that wacky woman who is peeling the orange.
That widow-black can not turn me out of my way. went. locked the kitchen door.
There was a man who sold pigeons on the subway. patriarchal
intermittent between the throne and the seal. the husband of my mom.
once he was my father.
Mary has executed the arithmetic
she has licked it into shape.
There is no such man. In the history of sleeps.
Last updated June 12, 2016