1

Cold light on the soybeans
as 

if 

villagers’ 

sweat 

had 

formed 

hoarfrost 

on 

the 

fields.

2

This 

is 

where 

the 

first 

horse 

carried 

the 

first 

horseman 

across 

the 

emmer—
Bury
 me, I thought. I want to sprout out in phallic reeds.
The pilots were smoking grass. The plane smelled like trees.


3

Italian bathers wade up to their shoulders in the sky
of 

our 

stupidity—the 

sea. Cocked 

toward 

flight 

like 

an 

umbrella
blown against its ribs in a gale raised by idle proclamations
concerning future work—how it will be done—the sea spreads.
The distance closes. It is the heaven under which disembodied spines of seaweed
undulate despite windlessness. Beside it, smoke rises from crushed
quartz. Pointy stars pierce the smoke together.
They are counted now, here, but obscure
in the southern hemisphere, where ranchers are lucky
to catch a glimpse of Mars as their cattle steam into the rigid air. 


Joomla SEF URLs by Artio

Buy Lana Turner #9

Issue 9 is HERE!

Order Now

@ltjournal on Twitter