Saturday, October 4, 2014

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.


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.)


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.

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