four figures in the desert, by a rock, or a stone

four figures in the desert, by a rock, or a stone

the language
that they speak
only makes
sense
under the
water.


centipedes (no. 3)

you could climb vast realities, or skip
a thousand stones as the colors of your
imagination drip; she hums along
to cautionary tales of cutlery
in streets and photographs of time, itself,
hums in the hole of caution wiring,
and hums in your absence, tasting hell’s lips.
her hand is only a flower in your
dreams, a ghost making love with an angel,
leaving behind only sweat and the sky.

///

a woman in trouble buys a photograph


shoebox found under bed

a moth. a hypnotist. a museum on fire, of fire.


centipedes (no. 6)

to escape is only to find a new
cage;the birds only sing in mathematics–
she keeps forgetting about the sphynx that
collects the dust of bones, the aged man
wearing a schizophrenic crown made of
beautiful rust and milk–my mother, my
father, and the growth of hormones in the
water dressed as molecules, forgetful
in their sundresses, she, and all others,
forget, with utter, mournful completeness.

///

a bedroom mirror:some kind of psychoanalytic striptease.

Kristopher Biernatsky is the author of the poetry chapbook A Sleep/less Night (FowlPox Press, 2015), and the forthcoming Centipedes (Vulture Editions, 2020). In 2014, he founded Dink Press. He lives in Florida and is in love.

2 thoughts on “four figures in the desert, by a rock, or a stone

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