On the moonlit side of a pebble
I untangle a cobweb’s tremor.
Some of the vanishing gets lured as well:
groping for consciousness
on other moons
at these mountain depths.
And because I stole one cry
from the artichoke
I held like the head of a child,
it gazes back at me
from its mottled Atari asteroid.
quickens to a more distant dampness—
Each passing cloud protects me
like a day shoveled from the breathing eyes of a bear,
in armadas that cannot be defeated or found.
And only because I believe in something—
a clothespin man,
a pinecloth lady,
the billowing of a wooden fawn—
I help devour a storm snail chasing a final trickle of leaves.
Rob Cook's latest book is The Undermining of the Democratic Club (Spuyten Duyvil). He has work in Up the Staircase Quarterly, Caliban, Verse, Borderlands, Mudfish, Zoland, Harvard Review, New Orleans Review, Carbon Culture Review, etc. He also had the dubious honor of being included in Best American Poetry 2009, possibly the worst volume in the entire series. If only he could be selected for inclusion in Best New Autoimmune Diseases, he would be over the moon.
Future Girls with Bikinis
beneath Bruce Springsteen Tees
According to Science
Because I’m Bad Ass and
I Said So
The Area Code for ESP
Boatship: Port Layout Gossips
Embody the State of the World