HER TWIN WAS AFTER ME

I wander & relinquish
the driving machine, unsure
as to whether I control
the vehicle. Design in blonde
oscillation wets over as
fever, fit for inducing a series
of feeling, each particular
built off the other, the wheeling
spectrum I streaked over cities
in rattling—what came to us whole
now flickering delicately between
pink fingers, coasting off
dead though memory made it
to bone, with eyes closed
I must remain my hearty
double: calculating, skeptical.

 

 

RINSE

Dear mouth of the dead
fish stuffed with nectar
anchor of night
stammering gloss      

If a horse cut in half
cut out by flying
will she mutter her naked
feathers untouched

 

 

HUNTING DOGS

Just ass in the cycle & mistrust lessons aimed all glam. A suave night meth broke in, winged in key phosphor, the bodice of silt down made for dour air in the hurtle. The chase-hatch flapped, defied whirring, forgotten, warring. In the hard lot idea daughter (goiter of truth) ears out to the country, mechanical burr, partial art. May’s latent. Ant-fuck, wooden dice, iambic knot, rain. It speaks through me saying goodbye all the time.

 

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Ally Harris is a graduate of the Iowa Writers Workshop and has a chapbook of poems forthcoming from Dancing Girl Press sometime in fall 2011.