no, the season makes
less sense now         nov
ember lighting        a bulb
caged in yellow       strung along
                                the blasting site
no vipers left in the pit even

it’s biblical      begging      miracles this way
roving gravestones for pigsight

the way bells sounded then

but here we lie approximate
version history fatigue

novas slumber         i flare
flash desperation             from one slow eye
fatigue in green       paint chip in charcoal crepe

in full-time employ of color theory
color theory is my boss and
i don’t no i don’t want to pick up the phone

Tuesday

A single raindrop
fat as a quail egg
falls from the sky
(where else?)
to snuff your cigarette.

my blood is real but not that convincing

        “I remember only how your mirror dulled/
         and slowly closed” — Stimmung, Model 35

expected trusts. tow notice
parcelled in rain, freighted,
pinned by wiper’s rubber
so when lifted, it tears.

yesterday’s evening, you’d seen
rilles at moonrise, tense gouges
as a termite’s approach within
household symbols: a table, chairs.

languid hours you can feel
the lover turning doorward,
which is not open, but will be,
and admits a little lie.

admits light below the lintel
in admission of this fact. below
the lintel, above the door, here
hangs a space of admittance.

a space which in a door proper
ly hung would barely exist.
but this door sags, admitting this:
the passage that time made.

between doing and done
treadless wastes, day melts
into deepening nounlessness.
your particulars empty therewith.

---

Izzy Knapp is a writer and artist from the Midwest. Their work is concerned with texture, rhythm, and sublimation. They hold an MFA in Poetry and an MA in English Literature. They believe that everything is collage.