Connor Stratman



Total. In that life, which is total
      is there a redrafting
of the wind's voice. Stolen

      and turned out
on the drying ropes

      that coo their corks
hypostasize threads of thought

Too much to tally    I woke
      to find you trampled
by drifting garbage the threaten-

      ing favor of failure
coughing willingly, tarried,

wicked, given to seizure
      and other drafts
from the slighted, open window


It bleeds from your palm:
the pleasure, the synthesis.
The hazard is the blood
whose meaning is open.

Mixing the cool day
and the moon's frigid pull,
we see the cattail marching
proud and unsought. Dimpled,

even. The cur lags behind,
carries its towel in its mouth.
The caterwaul preceded this,
gave way to the bell's quiet.

Have I prompted the present,
or given credence to the image?
Or you, where are you? What

strings are yours to pull?

Lizard Squall

Kicking off the wigs
in the kennels
what animals arise
were staying true

& now

this rejected sphere in the door
is the dejection of the vertical
& points to the equator

I have candled and mothed
the scene
bathed with the riddles
of lice

the aura can
be shade
be luminous

or gramofy

as cattle before

a solar flare


and the new eyelid
all-but-over and

In contrast the crusade
is a rush into the cavern
tolerable and mossed

in no-no's

My Shining Hour

as a dead comedian a

scratched building/New big

sky that names you

emergency alarm of

wakefulness impinged

and needs/A new eyelid

Some Of

In the
woods he
saw an open-

ing in
the tree
to bury his
brown head

in the noise
was the

that the lake
had no-
thing to offer

but its own
wet sur-


What I concealed
from him—
the pistol, the act—

he cursed
and left me

bruising heads
in the moon



The body can
only plead

but never
really take


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