Graham Foust’s
recent collection is As In Every Deafness (Flood Editions, 2003).

Thirteen Colonies                               

Fruit thumps in the pointless
grass, has no hand in itself.

Pain’s a sort of orchard.

A summer flower plucked black’s

a kind of tool.


I move around my many-
cornered heart some.
Evidence, reason, domain
I might blink back.
Home’s a problem all
heavy with walls.


Gashed arch
of the last of
an orange, a frown
of old moon.


Evening’s quick
ships of leaf are now
a shambles, the sky
an upturned sea.   


Later, winter
busies, winter
buries, winter


A thimbleful of diesel. 
Believable slaves. 


If only I couldn’t
understand, I’d imagine
some sarcastic new Christ, say
something someone would say.


I first heard loss on a record
I no longer own. 


Like new stars
or planets, our things
move quickly from missing
to significant.  Loose hair
in my mouth, hands.


The way the days gray over is almost
a system.  Sing at me
that sworn-to pedestrian sound.


How really caught we are:  caught
not looking, caught wet
clicking, caught


What ruptured
constituents keep
me from the real,
the acres on
the inside flags refuse.


Loose hair, again in
my mouth—what clerking. 
I want something to not
do with my hands.

the lake


we should’ve been this—

I don’t hate you

broken gift


cue the dull


are licking at leaves, the lake

only the asymptotes

a sound somewhere

its airplane
somewhere else


songs aren’t music

songs have to do
with music


all together now


like moving large objects around

You can’t
smoke in
bars now
in rich-
kid city—

a grim
dumb logic
like moving
large blah
blah-blah blah.

Close your
face.  Tongue
a star.
Knock on
water.  Try
to find
something in
the fire.

a single person passing through a doorway in the dark

I am slow
as quiet, all
of clean, clean hell away.

Pain is okay.  (It’s
the practical
that murders.)

Birdsongs now
in the fuck-
thicketed blackout—

me through, down.