Sand Build­ing

The Iowa Review - - FRONT PAGE - Daniel pop­pick

for Jeff Nagy When do I be­gin to seize with fre­quen­cies a chain That carves out homes such that our heads, crowned in the color wheel, Dis­tantly tan­gle in a fail­ure of sound? It’s a de­ci­sion one makes Dis­tinctly be­tween a sky red with speech and quick­en­ing fists As if a geode pro­tect­ing its young. I’m not alone to say I’m alone When I say it’s get­ting dum­ber with use. Aero­dy­namic with King Mi­das’s drool, to use its serum on a wound would rev Flesh in breath be­neath your an­swers if and when they come. A fo­lio Opens its paint for the pa­trons, a foun­tain open in the foun­tain Room, blank space pokes the back of my neck. Benef­i­cent fric­tion, One ought to sleep un­der its heat as of­ten as Au­gust opines From its soap­box so long as that soap­box is you. The room re­cedes Which I am not against so long as Jan­uary re­volves with­out fail. Space

Is a sad­ness, no ques­tion about it. Dili­gence anoints it­self to De­cem­ber While es­chew­ing a gen­eral win­ter, else why would the mid­dle So re­sem­ble the splash of flight? Be­gin again to end in color, Film is in­ter­minably in black and blue; you have an ar­row pro­trud­ing From spring but that doesn’t mean you can treat it like April. Snow Is a sign of the city’s ef­fi­ciency and we are lit­tle more than that, never Around any­more. When I ar­rive from the prairie Zero fur­ni­ture awaits an an­i­mal stalk­ing its con­tours as if real es­tate Grew ob­struc­tion out of its ears. In this way the cameo of lack You hang from your neck re­sem­bles waltz­ing in a dark­ened ball­room Glit­tered with shoots of a build­ing re­turn. What fi­delity De­mands I not wake filled with a word? I think you can feel it When that phase hits and con­tin­ues; I think who

Finds my lip­stick un­der the cinema’s sta­dium seat is es­sen­tially what I am and was, a sin­gle day, but how is it to be that ves­sel on which a sil­ver Cylin­der ar­rives to model a horn of the mind via the ring Around the mouth? Last night was is, a gem of it, No so­lar flares or song emit­ted from the spine. A pose,

No ques­tion, but day is fevered to serve its laugh­ter to hours felt as It col­lects a string you of­fer. Adults wave to us from in­side A lawn and I feel they wave with their own arms. Their eyes Are filled with fil­a­ments and their skin is filled with strikes. A pain­ter Wrote a woman he’d loved had skin like white mar­ble, now what Was his name? Ma­te­ri­als flood the feel­ing like rib­bons of heat, scores In a log. Half of con­scious­ness is show­ing up, the other half is more Or less mir­rors. The other half is mir­rors.

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