The leaking state. Comparative possum. The crushing
sound of conjunction. Like eating a meal of
attenuated steam. I am passionately committed to
palisade market shares. Time is the bebop of the
spheres. Your self insists you take inverted sides.
What’s that? The raw temperature of grief?
Art is the fire that burns horror from beauty. The staid
orphans disappear into the crepuscular dusk.
He crosses his legs, the street, himself. The mystery
is just not credible. Look—Sadducees!
September 12, 1928. Cache of cash. Hate’s grapefruit.
Be vertical. Strive to be vertical. No way to know
the correct pronunciation of  “chthonic.” Rude fluids
nurture the nightmare. The squidness of existence.





I couldn’t parse the grammar of her body
nor decode the secret softness of her neck.
I didn’t learn the tango of her shining
nor even once track the trespass of her tongue.
No one could rob her being of its bullion
or untie the satin lashes of her charm.
I lay with her on a tarnished beach at noon.
Above us, blind seagulls interrogated
aqueous clouds. I whispered a sinuous …

I could go on but I’m tired, tired of
describing what doesn’t exist, what never
existed, except in words, words, whorish words
of a certain alignment, a certain
innocuous provocative vicinity.




About the poet:

Image result for bill yarrow Bill Yarrow, Professor of English at Joliet Junior College and an editor at Blue Fifth Review, is the author of The Vig of Love, Blasphemer, Pointed Sentences, and five chapbooks, most recently We All Saw It Coming. He has been nominated eight times for a Pushcart Prize. Against Prompts, his fourth full-length collection, is forthcoming from Lit Fest Press in 2018.