Zachary Cosby

Short Poems

A purple yoga mat left unrolled all morning

Tapping the hearts between photographs

Like a dark mood your push notifications engulf me


Nike Run Club and the murmur of a playground in yew trees

I press my ear to its mouth and know 

The world has a secret code which is almost always silent


I was eating kimchi and rice in a cool park breeze

He was showing off a muscle in his outer right wrist

As you talk, the lip gloss starts shim-shim-shimmering


From bed the sound of Phillip Glass, a crowd of children playing hopscotch, and you counting each         breath slowly

The black laptop screen catches sunlight and I remember

Clear green bottles that stubble our rooftop each night.


I stumble through a pedestrian alley at midnight

With a can of green plum juice in each hand

I just feel like an empty elephant, a clumsy something that paws at treetops as it floats through the         sky.


I open a new tab and search for Patterns In A Chromatic Field

Still filled with self-anger to have liked your GoFundMe but not clicked the link

I walk around the apartment and press my forehead against the wall


Is the relationship between aroma and love 

The same as to memory?

I stood in the shower with that bar of lavender soap


Letters from Mark and Alma bang into my afternoon

Breathing in that cool taste, like water

I wanted to be at your wedding but the feeling was banished


In the bathhouse at Trumpworld, the news feed was shapeless

A speech at the DMZ, a death in Boston

The television grew bigger between clouds of steam rising


Brown jumbo eggs draped across the pan

A New Girl streaming 

As your body shakes with quiet headphoned laughter

Zachary Cosby was born in Oregon and lives in the Republic of Korea. He edits Fog Machine.