Hazel McClure

 

wrapped in paper. and layer and layer

Not to inflict oneself
is dreadful.  I know joy
is flat from the outside.

Perhaps it’s silly to want
a spectrum as full as a train.

At the station where I followed
you down,  I heard the man
calling out to confess our sins.  How
to hear him, to know he’s sound.

 

 

joy the secret hero is a straight-backed chair

the window doesn’t close at the particular
I love.  The everything hedging makes
a pillar, pressurized.  You, chalky day-
moon, top heavy, busty or bald.
You baseball bat metal, you
hills are a body part.
And the aimful part of you,
catalogued music.  The secret’s
a table, your vision varnish.

 

 

New Year, a month late

I was told the ocean was a thin film.
Underneath was rock.  I was told just
to create.  We decided living wasn’t
the forward gaze.  You smelled like this
when I loved you first – you smelled like my face
in our hair.  The room filled up; I wanted
to be looking but judgment
sleeps lightly.  At the point when we’re only conductor,
the energy collected by sight is enough to sustain.