Small Remnants of Impossible Clouds
I was born a cluster of crumbs in a lonely hut
A plume of smoke accompanied my mournful dirge
And imagined reptiles clogged the artistry of pipes
And imagined reptiles clogged the artistry of pipes
That thrash with inexcusable beauty
I dove through the breeze into a cloud of tilted feathers
That thrash with inexcusable beauty
The moon was a cold jewel, alone on its rooftop
I dove through the breeze into a cloud of tilted feathers
A plume of smoke accompanied my mournful dirge
The moon was a cold jewel, alone on its rooftop
I was born a cluster of crumbs in a lonely hut
The Immortal Morning
To observe. To
reason in the sea. To
rush out on a
bicycle. To harvest
blackberries. To
clean the little
ears of your
mother. To
kneel in dust near
Florence. To undress
the chandelier
with your eyes.
To drive along
narrow roads. To
soak in the immortal
morning. To lie
on your back as
silent fathers
evaporate overhead.
Growth of a Rotted Blossom
I drowned at high tide
in the bandit’s November.
A stranger with one
hand took me through
an orchard of chickenwire. Two
kingdoms were draped
over a cradle. One was an
egg yolk and a snail without its
shell. That night I stole bread
and the highway became a
skillet. A bad dream
emerged from its belly.
Like thunder I waited for
the robber to discover me
suspended over the cold
ears of a hill, rinds cluttering its slope.
photo: Fukushima Breeze
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Connor Fisher is the author of The Isotope of I (Schism Press, 2021) and three poetry and hybrid chapbooks including Speculative Geography (Greying Ghost Press, 2022). His poetry has appeared in journals including Denver Quarterly, Random Sample Review, Tammy, Tiger Moth Review, and Clade Song. He currently lives and teaches in northern Mississippi.