Night Cy­cle

The Iowa Review - - NEWS - Steve mueske

in our beds, the skin stretched over moth-black eyes flut­ters with the ma­chin­ery of sleep : a can­ti­cle

for days aliased with strat­a­gems : their set­tings win­dows into the glassy plots & coun­ter­plots

of sex­ual congress : yes, full-throated : the spindly maple re­born not of fire but the tele­ol­ogy

of neu­rons : a tree no longer but light­ning in a long room lead­ing to smaller rooms : a se­cret lad­der that leads to a dank base­ment

where cords of wood are stacked : a vast cast-iron fur­nace, its breath in Jan­uary’s aban­doned house : jars of must : the ru­ins

of win­ter in the frosted box of pho­to­graphs left for the dead : the rose, open­ing : a prime num­ber of gray roofs

an­gu­lar as the houses of Horta de Ebro : a glint of sun : the in­ter­rup­tion of gun­fire & scream­ing in a clap­board school­house : the rose,

fold­ing : the two words for mourn­ing : one ver­sion of the self with wings, a cy­clo­pean eye : a pen­chant for light : there is

a wolf at the door : a solution that doesn’t in­volve un­scripted weep­ing at hi­ero­glyphs : a par­al­lax : cool sheets :

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