Like you, I’m a picture of suspended light.
And shadowy. And puerile.
A masculine principle quarters the horizon.
This cross carried out by the wind and shoe-shoppers.
A demon spoke at night. Mutter.
My eyes fill with poison, water.
Metaphysical blues, tooth-breaking sound.
The rough world sitting in your mouth.
The tongue crashes against it,
gulps as what is known slips under.
(people in downy velcro jackets,
holding cups of air.)
One cries out, and the word manifests itself as a lonesome man.
The stammer-world repeats itself,
rustling of rosebushes at night.
Melodrama, the Museo del Prado.
the other side of every sodden Christmas.
The surprise of motion.
Violet Callis is a writer from Lansing, Michigan, and a recent graduate of the School of the Art Institute of Chicago, who is now based in South Florida.