Issue 2:1 | Poetry | Wesley Biddy

By Wesley Biddy



September haze. Breathe,



this is the approach of the approach of splendor.


Jukebox spurting rusty flakes of blood and years

into the grease-glutted air,

music spiders through the veins

on silken legs of memories

like opium,        like foxfire

that drug and bewitch the soul.


We glare at the moon,

his sunken eye-pits,

gaping bowl of a mouth,

 and deliberate:

why does he just sit there and wail like that?


It is a terrifying thing to see a rock

crawl into the sky and become a mirror. 


Smoke weaving its nets overhead:


the cigarettes burn like a kiss,

scarred marascino cherry

crucified to its meal of weeds

in those holy inches just beyond the lips.


Our eyes lock and the warmth defies metaphor;

this return from long exile,

this near-sacrament

who would blaspheme with poetry

what should be canonized with silence?




eyelids flutter becomes pages:

the unutterable alphabet of dreams.



Wesley Biddy