See how they’re spun, hung
In dross, sun
A grainy spine, yellow
Starlight in a vortex, beneath
She’d walk alone, while
He’d drink in red, how
Blackness makes them white, how
The blast of gun powder, the
Soot makes fabulous these slickers, these
Duck feet, flicker
Of a tiny film, whisper
Of our making an abandonment, a
Squashed silver apricot, a
Portrait of yourself as me, how
Superimposed the third burned out
Beneath medicinal trees
© 2007 Jennifer Pilch
’s poems are forthcoming in CutBank, The Iowa Review, and Western Humanities Review, and have appeared in 26, 5_Trope, Denver Quarterly, Fence, Faultline, papertiger.media, Perihelion, Phoebe, and Sprawl. She lives and teaches in Southern California.
