Marsh and fog or bright the skin Not, how does the game work.
And his unknown name of power Was still a mess, As he napped autumn was passion. But turn your face from the paycheck
Heel’s come through argyle web. Sundays of audiocassettes come back
The baby likes is autumn what. Am I a thing outside a car?
More radiant sanities! A stronger ghost, nameless, gold, Three to the em But she looks good to me.
The situation in which Satan Wants you to vote: The brain is streaked whole
The ball peen pen.
Gascap geographies I.e. theft of service Through pressed leaves
The police department Gets a kind of music every day As trees are incandescent
When leaves are coming Like a yellow light The telephone rings Its fatal pearl, talk about A city and its cabbage,
Born marigolds with deep Blue mustaches.
The beginning was a game is Meter serious and maybe Crying like a dirty maybe.
Runners cross the full moon Weak horn great and labial Marys the sun caged.
A burglar in the mast Wrote Hollywood—
When I hear something break Dotting the acre with miracle trash As full-time pale as the mother Of a witness in contempt jumping
Oh rope made of flowers I think it might be me.
One thing he likes is motion, Another is still. See something by itself Then in its safety.
November morning, be good, Get up, business to business.
In a gold sweater she rolls An apple between her palms. She cuts a gash on the plains, She puts on a loincloth of trees.
Radiators chastening lead dollars Grim mill-turners strike coal To coal singing down ladders. Sforzando of soggy drachmas, Beethoven’s Irish saints come through pink Like thrift store cigars of manual sky.
A cod before the flour Beats and bangs,
The decimal’s shadow lands hard on a student; Shiva’s got the book another six weeks.
Fairground ruts, tourists lit from within All bicycle gears chained to a square.
You shave your head but it doesn’t hurt. They break the sidewalk as you broke ice, Pretending to be a boat.
Tall-bathers in the flowers, white-shadowed, Are you bad too? Silence. Spot me in the parlor willful And the teabag flops like kelp.
Touch, or what did you do? Do you track yourself before the snow? In that grave November grave, Drinking black and white water.
Clasps are the main thing.
One is a carnival packer Consumed by printer’s ink, I see the fire came from those trees, The path to the water Turpentined stones. Our lives Came before the thoughts of them.
And here again, at last, Is love from another time, Sunrise surprising diagonal mirrors.
Please stop mid-sentence again, I’ll follow your hideout Take the bowls of camellias down, Put the real maples around. For starters
Loud sweet music in the music classroom, The clean machine of your voice
Ass and sigh, And you look along the street
I see the stitch as cottoning Is the mention, someting dirty Draws you nearer
A laugh is nervous everything. To find you in a booth And help you, up, and down. I see the boat arriving from The train along the sound,
Two dull men get off with you.
The rain is a journal Kept by pianos.
See it down the highway— I had one church
Chest to chest and leg to leg, Dumb summer contains sunlight I’ll feel for miles.
In everything superior I met street.
The art of the office Finds a way to snow. Blessing on the branch In squalid welding-light
The amateur of last year By the autographed tonight Gathers as fiction Damned beaches as foam is tall Out of jail trumpets
Savage mommies eureka the grapes
True ages last for horses For the Goethe of Fortran. Here is a magic substance
Courtney Cook is an MFA candidate at the University of California, Riverside, and a graduate of the University of Michigan. An essayist, poet, and illustrator, Courtney's work has been seen in The Rumpus, Hobart, Lunch Ticket, Split Lip Magazine, and Maudlin House, among others. Her illustrated memoir, THE WAY SHE FEELS, is forthcoming from Tin House Books in Summer 2021. When not creating, Courtney enjoys napping with her senior cat, Bertie.
