Intentions pave the road, but I clatter within a pothole. The bellybutton connoisseur
scratches a new portal. Remote and screened, your laundry is lent. We borrow enough
tire to go.
Water well enough to buck and does until dawn. Handles echo in my hands.
Plaid is a plain of perpendicular grass. Obtuse geese fan the sky.
The honk hunk between your hands within the metal animal, alloy ally of migration.
Three-hundred-sixty degrees of antlers is too hot. GPS the melting point. Position the
hood while riding in weather that is a constant.
Let t be the option I take as the second given. Clocks populate the apartment and I can
hear them digesting. If your lizard breeds her eggs will have numbers.
Vanessa Couto Johnson recently earned her MFA from Texas State University. Her work has appeared in Hot Metal Bridge, shufPoetry, A cappella Zoo, Liebamour, blossombones, and other places. She has poems forthcoming in Star 82 Review, Sassafras, Eratio, and Dinosaur Bees. She runs treksift.com, blogs at meansofpoetry.com, and has a BA in both English and philosophy from Rice University.
I Watch Myself Loop
excerpts from whatever
Seasonal Affective Disorder
Sizzle and Chew
Satan's Skull Glows White Hot
When Lost in the Woods
Stasis in Ragtime
In Late November, There Are
Days of False Clemency