Mary Kasimor




                   the windows

are searching for you in the corner--and

you cut your toe nails

the sharp edges enfolding you in blood

                I watched

maybe you have spun yourself

into a spring bird sprung

from the novel

but it was a movie--and it

should have been a novel


on the first page we were

stuck in the grip of peonies

opening their balloons

on this day in June

I wanted the taste of water that

runs deepest        the connection runs

deeper than the bird’s atmospheric

kiss--you shared the water

with me and we watched

those years together beside

the long ago garden

and a metal tree




what is muddling

out frumpy unrecognizable congealed

emerging unconsolable


I am the woman who discovered

life after--

my face became stone

my eyes fire

my mouth


threads the snakes of medusa




herbs tell the blue


          which is passed on. by

the zone of comment

and then goes communist laying

out the views. of daisies



                                             ants’ brains dutifully

collect. the air

                          bypassing the paper

            work stated as a fact

food. follows the water

streaking like a fish

the world,

may be ready for free water


(capital). as taking stock

mexico’s success rate

falls below. the immortality

of babies          their luminescent

eyes mean something.

                 to the communist who paints

plates and bowls of feasts



borrowed from before the age

of enlightenment

thus we. change the gold

into glittering stones:

something for the communing/


(ting)       non-nationalist




there is not

far enough          I wish I could go further

an e-mail asks for a reply

             if she is still alive

             if she is wearing clothes     is

a perfect example of

things gone wrong


I’ll fly away to a place

(incognito--the smashed gnat on the ceiling)

warmth is not the answer

nor is the coldness of your skin

the climate

the orange orchards

the flowering trees

dust in my sky


let’s not go back to the hot metal thing

it smokes in every room

           bowls of fruit

cups of undipped desire

the chairs are placed strategically


we will talk about culture

and kin

                  the kitchen of flavors

e-mails that dangle and tangle

masquerading as metaphor


something arcane


let it go _____________________


I wish I knew more




this was an awful beginning--

          and awkward

what is your name?

are those your thumbs?

your brow broods


and worried


bald head anointed

by sunshine        eastern

wind and aches

smooth out

mountains       “leaping lizards”

little orphan annie says       

tall buildings excite

the future of heaven

listen to the bricks

             falling down like water

and the world engulfs

time in its arms

its elasticity holds

you together







[step back to issue 2]