d a n i e l d ' a n g e l o

THE END OF THE SOUND OF WAVES
	On a crow’s best day it might teleport. On a crow’s birthday it might throat something mortal from a high mast when it’s cold at a night time. I thought this was an owl’s business— eating darkness in full. In a dis- play of penance: the crow industry did as much as it could at sea at night with harps that drew crowds of water. Water eviscerated its self to the sounds. I felt so sorry seeing the fan-base of foam. The water waved off, full of harp sounds, way away right in front of the crowships. The crowfolk felt bilious remorse. They threw up all kinds of constellated vomit, a sampling of string plucks & feathers. The neighbor whales heard and shuddered. They feared & huffed & doubled their depth & slept in parts of oceans hard to find at night. It takes a huge amount of fire to see much.
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THE END OF FRATERNAL GULFS
	All of my brothers were carved to death into cold tree barks. Dawn-queasy, I bottled sapling blood—I doubt, if I don’t preserve. I sneezed hard. Black, glassy earth cracked. The ground froze, I slipped onward, in a negative dark space shaded green. Vanished indifference, departing to where…how is the elaborate vacuole? I, sucking air and space pieces when I breathe and change and see mutable fog fall out of my mouth. That’s a sky. There, a distressed house in flames that, though trying, can’t paint anything with itself.
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DANIEL D'ANGELO's poems have appeared in H-ngm-n, The Fiddleback, Dark Sky, Jellyfish, Birdfeast, B O D Y, and elsewhere. He is former Poetry Editor for Phoebe: A Journal of Literature and Art. He's from Bettendorf, IA and now lives in Arlington, VA.

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