Photos by Jonah Giuliano


Your eyes are stamped with the sidereal insignia of a kanga, my sweet celestial bureaucrat. You breathe beneath the scabs of scarlet stars, like a sprung diver’s reflection, suspended, scraping clean the sand-footed surface.

Poem Donkeys

When autumn has burned its toast, poem donkeys will cart away firegolden fish, galloping joyously back to Gary. Hastily, they deposit their music in towers of sheer glass in which the leaves rise like mercury in thermometers. Their hearts shine the dragon of a diner by the turnpike. In the smithies of Gary, loathsome rodents become swashbuckling hats. But they must dolefully return, pursuant to the Rule Against Perpetuities. If you’re lucky, on an August evening, you’ll spot donkeys in the branches, like stinky, galumphing bees, supergluing speeding tickets to the trees.


The stomachs of children lashed too tightly to their seats bleed the equators of orgasmic maps to gasp the chemical air at the vertex of the vast and harmonious ferris wheel that churns the depths of the pool.

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