Katy Lederer



The Lies


The years I am talking about
The time I spent in violence
This man is sitting
In the church
I have seen him before
An amiable man
He has hands.
I am thinking
Let us look out at the landscape
Drenched in rain, the wilderness is blossoming
I have walked out of this building many times
I am waiting
I speak with my friend
In this irony, snow flurries
Light is like breeze
Appealing to the senses
I have read my book in one
Long try.
Competition between and among one another
Logs, lit and flaming,
The lies.

I Do Not Plead for Him


I do not plead for him
The sun
The face on his head
Is a present
Or end
I have acted unfairly
And practically
Everything thought
Has been altered in kind
This very day
He comes home
This very day
In his eyes I see weather
Look at his face
You see nothing
On his face is a white band
His eyes are bright and banging
In his eyes I see nightfall
I see his crudest wishes
On an alpine plain
Colder than the crystal man
The tree in the foreground does glisten
It is standing in wait
It is wanting what it cannot have
If I touch its limb, withering in the cold
By the forest, it will creep and move as a man
It will lumber, pathetically, forward to calm me
'Least I will braid it in sevens
And rake its back
Blue silk as camouflage
That it is a tree
The bark on its outerskirt glistens with dew
The inside part, delicate, pure



A juridical fraught debate
Concerning the descendants
Of emotion: Hate,
Thought, and laughter.
I remain here, my head
Clapped by downpour,
Taking the sacred for talk.
If a person is appearance
Or dearness heated will
If alone the gorgeous beast is soul
A nearness or consequence casting flesh
Outward, erotically
Tell me: what shall I do with
This will?

Premonitory Samovar


A secret edition
We went to bed
We die of septicemia
In terror
Moisture on our heads
And wrists
Remembering everything
We can choose nothing
Stoic and virile
Like planets
We orbit.
Is there a question of sincerity?
The mouth agape and scarlet-
The hand open
The book's page torn-
It is dramatic but true, enumerating
The bad
And the good like a lamb
Is the good like a lamb? White-haired
Is the good definable
Or irritable
It goes away
The good is elemental to all thought
And secrecy
O, there is the emotion of the story
But the characters are lost and tired.