e v a n    h a r r i s o n

 
 

Figure with Scrap and Address (4)


Figure with Scrap and Address (5)








































Figure with Scrap and Address (4)
 

The spool is wound in rosy expiration,
a miniature table set with iron and screwed-up mice,
a piano up to here in dun plaster. A paw rises,
and my ear does a number.
          If I really heard it, if a spoken word had integrity
amid the vascular fuss, maybe we could get out
the placemats and stemware. The ceremony
might overbear, the courses gel.
          Breath cannot ground the mote, affluent
in guard. The border of thread looks wild
with lonely eaters. I draped our chest with that map
made in the quiet.
          White ringing, your mind changing,
two wooden wheels purring across stone.

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Figure with Scrap and Address (5)
 

The quilt is folded and nailed atop the high shelf,
the hare patters in its spring, wedged with knowledge.
Bowled rubble, bad reception. I folded. I held it.
A figurine of the hand.
          I considered the cloudbank of black felt fraught
with a human form. I thought to stuff the bottles with scrapes
of fat. I was wrong, like that pool of stitching
or the import of leaves.
          Little designs like you may have done in boredom,
varieties of hair locked in a floor-bound nebula,
and you let the pigment find its way through the paper
into the figure of a lung.
          We put the torso upright, drew a window
on its back, and watched the paper boxes combust.

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EVAN HARRISON lives in Hattiesburg, MS. His poems have previously appeared in Bat City Review, CutBank, DIAGRAM, Hayden's Ferry Review, and Otoliths.

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