the roses & suppose the stone,
the stare, the I swear I bleed
these dead words in need of tether.
I cut construction paper stars
then sketch an ape,
his mouthful of feathers
all dusted in blood.
Venture forth from the porch
& risk deflower &
a fever of teeth all about
the neck. I am all ink
until my elbows itch. You favor
porcelain kitties & quicktime
hipsters. You’re a long time gone.
You were never really there.
Previously published in E·ratio.
Chris McCreary is the author of three books of poems, including Undone: A Fakebook (Furniture Press), in which “Screaming Trees” has previously appeared.
Object(s) to bring back to life: “I’d like to bring back men wearing suits year-round, but only if we can also have the pre-Greenhouse Effect temperatures, too.”