Five Poems by Joseph Mains

Photo credit: Paul Jens Adolphsen

Photo credit: Paul Adolphsen

Five Poems

 

AT NIGHT: AWAKE

 

You’re unhome.

The day is coldest at sunrise.

 

 

 

ON CERTAINTY: MARKER

 

roots travel toward one trunk

branches do the same

our tangled smallness nipped a bird

a groundhog for a short time our trunk

can be cut into anything a chest a yellow

seesaw we can build a house

unutterable in its beauty it can be

any color you want sandstone

for example or a composite of all blues

the darkness of your mouth exhibits

 

 

 

AT NIGHT: CLOSER

 

My eyes: Say nothing.

Isn’t love just a word for

the disease passed

between body parts?

 

 

 

PEACHES

 

 

Dry leaves twist

blue light & roman nose

 

ghost in stalkings

I can’t place.

 

If lying to myself is beneficial

is it wrong? You like a dimple

 

in the tie.

The wind & password

 

yours truly & your back to me.

I take you back from behind

 

Tie your body

smell of stone fruit and rotting earth

 

what are you saying

you’re saying ribcage

 

you’re saying closer.

 

 

 

HOW YOU DIE OUT IN ME: A Vision

 

 

The good of the world is outside of the world

Or so small that its mention is wasteful

In the night

of the nightless mind   only things made

can be given away     For example

 

you made me     fuck you & I     I gave it away

 

 

 

 

Joseph Mains was born in the Sonora desert and is the author of three chapbooks, including A Portable Model of How Memory Works (Alice Blue 2013). He lives and writes in Portland, Ore., where he also edits Octopus magazine and co-curates the reading series Bad Blood

 

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