St. Anne of Blueberries

something hesitates / near the chamber where
some people are missing cats / but
only if they're fucked up and pretty / swapping one
dictatorial universe for another with wine


this is the true form of heroes / tackling
St. Anne on fire over newsprint with spirit
sweating a pimpled gossamer of surgeries


I will kill you / keep you in hell / and frost your bangs


I fear
I am
growing
immune
to
blueberries

/ / /

we fear you will leave / walk / eat blueberries
she will have met a man at her feet / in the dance space / among crushed blueberries

and the dream of blueberries looms drunk and fucked between us
then comes a wave / and the forest next to us splits its pines
and we drink beer sweating / and stinking of pitch

St. Anne bags up fennel and lost antlers / around her the pines drone
she whispers back / everyone has a lovely time during shopping online
the woods do not whisper back / St. Anne enjoys watching the deer converge

She will insist on reading the lonely out of leaves / bringing it back to the water
and letting it fall from the clouds


***

Poetry is blowin' up all over this mother bitch!

Is disjunction dead... alive... horny?

Mark Wallace
Nada Gordon
Anne Boyer