Andrew Grace

Concussions of light.

River, bridge, abandoned mattress.

As if out of need, it is late in the year.

Wolves’ bivouac for flense and birth.

Tremble of backwater imperceptible, as when a fever returns.

Too far for me to lay a hand there once or lightly.

Poverty of linden.

All of my errors have been of omission.

I cannot bring a world quite round

Blacksnake armada.

Or is it moccasin.

I cannot bring a word down for the room I left behind.

Poverty of mission.

And other maimed unities.

The room a group of voices has left.

Asphyxiations of wind.

Crawfish odyssey.

A group of voices: myself, brother, mother and

Omissions, stopped waves.

We will meet at the river.

A wolf placenta stains the abandoned mattress.

Our hour will never come.