by Peter Schwartz

I fell asleep with a hint of anesthesia on my lips.
abandon, abominable, absolute...

before long the night dug a canoe out of my skull
and filled it with the strangest perfume,
and fruit...

a stanza of ash; entity
on its purest axis.


4th by Gareth Humphreys


by Peter Schwartz

every three or four days I put myself
under quarantine; I withdraw from this
weird world
like a bat

I lay down my eleventh bone--my pencil's
view and kiss, kill any anthem on my lips,
and sandbag

the reddest parts of my half of
the calendar, I let the hours
go like kites...