ISSUE  1   2   3  


 5     SUBMIT

from return policy

Andy Gricevich


Gathering the light is unlike gathering money. Shovel off across
the snow. Cushions squeak a little against a bare ass—fake leather,
the Court. Rhythms of absolutely nothing make the inscription
obligatory, a conniption… added to this at some point but
worms revise. Hum builds.

I think about that and maintenance. The camps, in fact, can do
anything he wants. Quickly turning the jury the tools are making
a perfect smell. I’m going to stop gathering the light from my
wooden half-ass shovel office. Complete structure like a zoo.

Forced in a wasted town, the lineup and the gale


I ran from the writing as fast as I could,
so far, so hard away. It’s not returning—
which belongs to seasons, made up entirely
of what’s gone, in laters (layers
to convince us there’s no bottom (and
there isn’t), meaning something
in another’s voice, caught accidentally
with the orange glow thought
to be the napkin flaring up with hot
grease from the pan, but turns out
is the last flash of sun, carried over
the roof and reflected
against the windows of the next house—
it’s the effort it takes
to convince them (they stayed)
(or so it seems, though they may have come back
their own ways) that you still exist,
since to them you can only exist again.
Poetry is the opposite of this.

I smell the air as a demand
and am lost. Clutch, revise what’s been
as leading to this two-strand knot,
weather and failed. What I like
are that weird lyric thing. Now turgid
whorls of enforcement mass at the limits
of lived time. Therefore I cannot say
to you. Guts line up as meaning, told
in the gale of gaze. Now we come
back as tips of trees, bare and diffuse
at a remove where the light gathers.
Its way of fleeting looks
like rest.