These Nights

I've left the door open to the vision  coming through the dark  his
arms filter through the flowered ceiling  unsealed from the jeweled
tree in the window his organ hurtles through the air into the pond where I search for a mirror and some softer chalk  a surface so
pliable so dug and raw that the baby’s breathy touch the wind
some creosote so faint begs the otter to swim on this  my first and
last day

But it’s early morning in someone else's house  out the window a
New England dawn  mist on the green and  turquoise bed  the
pound of feet upstairs then a rush of cold air  a walk down the
stairs  a winter relationship or a pact of privacy before the lights
come on  what’s left  is  the  result of  criminals   the orange a
rendering  some thready hope that the white man lost but he did
not lose

Could it not it be night again? a boy his beard his hat the only
orange intact inside our bed our hold heading down as if it were a
normal day when our viewing habits were not caught public on the
street how did they know? did I somehow tip them off? first they
took my sweater then the card with his name when stumbling they
marched us down the long-halled building to a cell   the blood
fountain  where soon I even lost the ocean smell of wind in the
after-rot rushing from the open doors of trains

I do need a trellis

September 12th 7:06:03 AM

I do need a trellis  a burgeon alive in
the slats of turtle strength  a structure
to hold me upright  a brave borehole
a song to withstand these broken skies
I need a seat in the white flakes of
accumulation and age   a brake  an
armature beyond dreams
                         I need a bornhole       a corner
                         the trail alive         for shields
                         in the very           a corner
                         strike of a              for hats
                         miniature cock          another for
                         at 30,000 feet           weaving
                         of lubricated clouds        a riot of paint
                         against your legs            a forge for
                         the fur on              what lives
                         which I grow          in fire
                         tiny horses            for what
                         and a factory           strengthens the
                         of swords            iron of grace

Samuel Ace

Samuel Ace is a poet, sound artist and photographer and the author of several books, most recently Stealth, co-authored with Maureen Seaton. Widely published, he is the winner of the Astraea Lesbian Writers and Firecracker Alternative Book awards, as well as a two-time finalist for both the Lambda Literary Award and the National Poetry Series. Recent work has appeared or is forthcoming in Poetry, Vinyl, Posit, Gramma, Fence, Troubling the Line: Genderqueer Poetry and Poetics, Best American Experimental Poetry 2016, and many other journals and anthologies. His first two books will be republished by the Belladonna Cooperative in late 2018 and a new collection, Our Weather Our Sea, is forthcoming from Black Radish Books. Having lived and worked Tucson for almost 20 years, he is currently a Visiting Lecturer in Creative Writing at Mount Holyoke College.


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