AT NIGHT: AWAKE
The day is coldest at sunrise.
ON CERTAINTY: MARKER
roots travel toward one trunk
branches do the same
our tangled smallness nipped a bird
a groundhog for a short time our trunk
can be cut into anything a chest a yellow
seesaw we can build a house
unutterable in its beauty it can be
any color you want sandstone
for example or a composite of all blues
the darkness of your mouth exhibits
AT NIGHT: CLOSER
My eyes: Say nothing.
Isn’t love just a word for
the disease passed
between body parts?
Dry leaves twist
blue light & roman nose
ghost in stalkings
I can’t place.
If lying to myself is beneficial
is it wrong? You like a dimple
in the tie.
The wind & password
yours truly & your back to me.
I take you back from behind
Tie your body
smell of stone fruit and rotting earth
what are you saying
you’re saying ribcage
you’re saying closer.
HOW YOU DIE OUT IN ME: A Vision
The good of the world is outside of the world
Or so small that its mention is wasteful
In the night
of the nightless mind only things made
can be given away For example
you made me fuck you & I I gave it away
Joseph Mains was born in the Sonora desert and is the author of three chapbooks, including A Portable Model of How Memory Works (Alice Blue 2013). He lives and writes in Portland, Ore., where he also edits Octopus magazine and co-curates the reading series Bad Blood.