Poetry

Nebuchadnezzar’s epithelials / are trapped beneath my nails

Some times / aren’t / Some days / don’t

Eight-hundred slender fingers / on a bound hand / gently kiss the contours / of the plane

The natives fling themselves / with abandon / into walls

Today’s poem is the first January River thing that’s been published elsewhere, which is really exciting! Check it out!

Butt cheek! / 
Butt cheek! / 
my daughter proclaims / 
to the world

The floor is paved with wooden planks / 
rough and scratched / 
peeling, mismatched

At six forty-six p.m. / 
they’re still laying great big chunks of granite 
 / in the yard

The rug in the room looks like Portugal

The Route One Prada 
has seen better days