by Gregory Lawless
Gregory Lawless is a graduate of the Iowa Writers' Workshop. His work has appeared in or is forthcoming from Ampersand, Apple Valley Review, "Best of the Net 2007," Blood Orange Review, Contrary, The Cortland Review, Drunken Boat, Front Porch Journal, Gander Press Review, H_NGM_N, La Petite Zine, Memorious, My Name Is Mud, nth position, Sonora Review, Stride, and 2River. BlazeVOX will publish his collection of poems, I Thought I Was New Here, in 2009. He lives in Waltham, Massachusetts.
I beg the clematis to quit clawing the brick.
I beg my wife to take the washcloth from her eyes.
Itsy, itsy, itsy, says my daughter, for each of my stitches.
Once, on a staircase in Bruges, begins a poem,
once in a library in Toulouse. I'm sick
of arbors, those spears, like hairs
on a dream. In one dream, I'm so flummoxed
with awe at the sight of Mount Father
that my heart grows arrows and sails,
and dissolves in the sea. You spend two percent
of your life waking up, .07 percent checking
your mouth for blood. You spend eight percent
of your life wanting to talk about your dreams
but staring instead at potted ferns.
Does this foyer make you feel lonely? you ask aloud,
or is it just me? Just you
says your father, coughing up
pieces of cloud.
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