Marie Larson


It is
my flowered illium
kept open by your fog light,

while snow owls
mock my      remains

desire my slowness be broken?

In my lurid chest

In my dim steam,

swim idle hot water
to scissor
the tense of tooth

heavy eyebolt to weary nimbus

It keeps
my extremity awake

I watch you
wake dazed
far from me
covered in orioles



the black     sac can't
dislodge the middle

melt into heat

balloons shuttered

by shoulder blades
it blows

small avian flutter

         from red bush to cement to red

bush a sparse consociate tide
between safety and seed

pursed by a limitless hollow lung

the squalid
         the levy
         the squid battered breach

five thousand fall to the
monolith of a bruised leash
my umbilical
pink buttered blanket



shining virus
covered by cloud fashions
                    a white arrow
          a fist of light

melting into the fault
of a bottomed out


is no different

it floats it
                    spreads like oil
across a greased sky
in droplets
                    violent droplets
          monoxide livor of sunset
cuts the weather

we are the heat pipelines
our lives marked by
                    city organics
bright ravines gouge
out phantom limbs

the   blue          of my coat reflects

off the curved glass

my multiplied hands





FIELD DEATH was written as a somewhat testy love poem between two discarded corpses. AERIAL MAP began on a plane at night flying over a brightly lit industrial plant. It's lit pipes and buildings spreading outward. It was very clean and disease-like, beautiful and quite a bit creepy. In BLANKET I'm thinking about nonexistence (death again?) as mother and yolk—as something we carry, as something that also breathes. Despite this, most people believe me to be a very lovely person.