THREE POEMS BY GRAHAM FOUST
Skull
Such a white planet.
And what scars
the eyes are,
what page the lack of face.
Compare this
to flowers
in a house.
Politics
Leave the room
to itself. Compare it
to a sleeping,
living creature.
Time is the dark-
packed house
of this place,
the luck of the desert
cut
into the floor of the desert.
Everything
is ready.
A light burns
wherever necessary.
Like skin,
like a prison,
each thought’s
an instant ruin.
Leave the room to itself.
Here’s a needle. Here is the sea.
We Are Not the World
though we approve it
and of it.
We are cargo, we know.
We know everything.
*all from Leave the Room to Itself, Ahsahta Press, 2003.
