Sunday, December 9, 2018


The Sun Also Fizzles

That's this place, between

geography and evening? The sun

also bludgeons; a car has three wheels;

and what's the wrong way to break

that brick of truth back into music?

Money belongs together. I'm right

where I wanted to leave me. Rain

belongs together. At mirror,

I've neither me believed.

I've come covered in arena dust,

my mouth a sleeve's end,

meatless. I've come somewhat up,

and I'm here to lick

the static from the ground.

Twice, I've been evidence of,

if anything, my breathing.

Not particular, I've pissed against

a cage, pretending wind.

Swallowed whole, a songbird might

could claw back through the hawk —

or so I've thought.

The choosing of a word

might be its use, the only poem.


Graham Foust
A Mouth in California
Flood Editions 2009