DRECK
HENRY BOHAN
Flung up I was
on cruel feed
Automotive disasters
in manual
sunrise
,
where the span to the rays
is so close in
a steel trap
, the mouse
has taken refuge
outside the pumpkin
it was born in Sprightly
mountain face
—
a flung hawk,
a-nebulous sight
—
wick in the spotted
, hairy twilight;
portraits in the arable
.
Deciding forest
starched
in winter bristles
, Christlike loose
limb waxy
in the detective sun
, an eye will die
; the pain a chemise
, the window open to
bees and wasps alike
-
Ballooning curtails
glancing sweat
, the bare tails
destroying
,
swaying away
,
a dissection of pomegranates
orating forts
.
Oblong even as
a crescent
,
the strain
, the moon
, burnt
;
crying
&
trickling its web
, as if
the house were so old
—
grey-blue parading over
damn near e’ery groin and
brine-licking hair
From the noseless desert a
bled pig turns
lily pad
.
Henry Bohan lives in New York, where he has lived nearly his whole life. Before that his parents lived in Berkeley. Before that they lived in New York. Before that they lived in Philadelphia and Boston. Before that he doesn't know