THREE POEMS BY JULIE DOXSEE
Your Dry-Eye Curse
Because that cloud
I’m pointing to has been raining on my town
six years straight
it’s not the weight of the
house affecting
my disappearance into
mud. You’d
sink when the part of
our body that is legs
takes charge.
Achilles
Achilles on the moor
sees a rash of footprints
followed by a
collage of peafowl.
Not so pinheaded
to count
flaws of the
wing. One only. Out of
eighty birds.
Cavalry, bring
out your ponies for little old
me. Pie cools, falcons loop-to-loop
either with or against the thrust.
Roped-Off Gravity
A glint of blue
butterflies its way
across the
throats of seven
children.
A wheel is
the forwardness
we thought
emerged only as
accidental
tongues.
* all poems from undersleep, Octopus Books, 2008.
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