3 Poems

Shane Book

Sister

I thumbed the single singed hair on my simple bell. She maintained a latch key kid for me. We remained a slack-eyed id for three. If the blanket was a thrown penumbra, the fire could not have been more meaty. She is fairly hair-less—hence his aversion to snow. Who says the sun does not ride like a crouton on the inner wires of a souped-up baby grand Camero? Water spots and parking heaters are often off a little mile. Hey it’s blowing outside, he would stammer into the phone, just wanted to see what you thought about that. I’ve got motherboard approval to abduct my theory. I've got the Lord’s removal to instruct the symphony in A minor misery. It is night and like the others I boil my weapons. A wonderful gleam or an eerie sickening thickness of the inner ear.