Connor Stratman- Three Poems

And in

the lens that cracks

under my stare

is the dust, the

stomped glass

that precedes it.

See the mouth,

cheval. My two

brothers found

your print, and

now there is

a tale for every

given channel.

Men eat, a child

swims, and swans

chase us in grass

with honking

spurts. Sirens

that something’s

lost. See how

the storm blows

like a flatline.

Removal

Now nachtmusik for the armchair

evening watch: the head, sever-

ed in a pile of wood. Now my

attention is yours. Crow loud.

Swing low beneath the red

of the razor blood sun. Did

a idol call when they were

away? (Say no, or choke.)

Run

There’s no comment for the dove.

Modern leaves are incidental.

Scents drive weather,

pages away from understanding.

You kissed hard. An act followed.

You showed her a flea. A hollow

act to any discerning eye. What

is it that kills smell? Nobody

seems to identify aerosol.

We imitate shells (post-fed)

and absorb blasts

from the window. Are you

not regaled? Traceless

is the aperture, the open.

Connor Stratman lives in Dallas, Texas. His books and chapbooks include VOLCANO (Writing Knights Press, 2011), SOME WERE AWAKE (plumberries press, 2011), and SOME WERE AWAKE (Erbacce Press, 2010). His work has appeared in such journals as Moria, Counterexample Poetics, Ditch, Etcetera, and many others. He is currently pursuing a PhD in English Literature at the University of Texas at Arlington.