by Jordan Dotson | Jul 23, 2016 | Predicates and commas and whatnot
What is left of all of it? Blind hoboes sell American flags And bad poems of patriotism On Saturday evenings forever in the rain, Between the cathouses and the slag heaps And the river, down home. Oh Jesus Christ, the Czechoslovakians Are drunk again, clambering Down... by Jordan Dotson | May 3, 2016 | Things I wish I'd written
The moon drops one or two feathers into the field. The dark wheat listens. Be still. Now. There they are, the moon’s young, trying Their wings. Between trees, a slender woman lifts up the lovely shadow Of her face, and now she steps into the air, now she is gone...