Poetry Issue 15

   Issue #17 : July-December 2012

Jose Perez Beduya


      Three nights into the work
      at my steel desk
      I struck a deer. If I sit in the red
      steam long enough, inhale deeply,
      I am safe. In isolated incidents. I grow small.
      I am brought to the end
      of a line of fellow flagellants. In one scene,
      we are chain-breathing confetti-strewn
      air flowing around buildings. In another,
      we crawl through a tunnel where damp
      wind takes us back to rusting sculpture gardens.