THREE POEMS
LOGAN FRY
THE PURE FAMILIAR
House coward.
Prudence tufts.
Use, piled in the far yard, tans
as formlessness descends at it,
a politic. Features began.
Come rub warm your hands in this tint.
To leech from leisure desire just have it.
Leaden as habit, have at it.
Soft becomes dewly lit trials of context.
FIELDROT
The Song’s lent hone
is frail as lore
if cast as spec
for cooler drips in lest.
A cloud can fester too
or, surer, form
can reify by wasting—
in old glass the bubbles
settle up. I add
never as noise I’d leave
with rot. I pack
my voice in salt, a fault
I drip for drag. I’ll allow
it was this up-
ward draft of odor that
the trench begat as flag.
DRINK THE AIR
Murmur sold us one mass out of
blights I climb up, dank.
My dirt
all endured in drought.
Thank her dialogue in loosening
only gestalt, furthering
like clarity
turns sewage to dew.
Thinkers die by gene’s hand too.
Not one barrier hurt had
to halt them,
dashcam vid of missing you,
tears a dog licked.
That to die is enough.
I’m tight with speech
Hank hurts.
Her stark son darkens yet.
Here’s me naming the weekend
Work’s form I mar.
Mom, I’m best at baring her.
