Poetry Issue 13

   Issue # 13 : January - March 2011

Kerri Webster


      This is how time sounds, body
      breaking down, river birds
      dinosaurian. Who wouldn’t pass out
      outright, given plastic catching
      rain, the lost chairs Orphan,
      Smokebreak, Minor Mishap?
      You think the park’s the world
      but the park’s not the world,
      it’s not even a real view, the dream
      of safety a sculpture garden,
      a figment—a boy sleeps
      on the riverbank, coat for a pillow.
      Pelagic night, slight euphoria
      of satellites, we blink lights
      at each other. Let’s make a shadow-
      play of Lazarus, let’s watch the zombie
      frown down at his weird suit
      of skin. Like a glass rubbed
      by a wine-wet finger, a hum inside
      the prayer: lung, lung, pull this cart
      slowed up with sleep and touch.