Conor Harris was born in New York but has spent most of his natural life in Virginia and will be relocating to California. His work has appeared in Ephemera, The Fat City Review and is forthcoming in Blind Literare Journal.
While your stable tilts into
stoniness, who am I?
hillocks in the brief of the day.
Pyramids interrupted by glass
of a treble intercession,
Sudden accumulation as
geographical intention; as human error.
fluid as a breath of stop. I
flow as hindrance and formation.
Angular edifice surrounds
your grassy plaza. A knoll atop
which I locate extrudes putrescence.
I am the last plancked church
in your mind. I am mindless
violence and immoral
fig. I exude glimpses
of ramshackle trees and hopeful bash.
You set me alight;
I burn for all your night skies.
I dream reality that drools against
Your forehead like a bird caught
In the front of a speeding car
Refusing to remove itself
There attesting to the limits and
Finitude of what we crash into
Headlong in our push upstream
Against all the frothing denial
Stones and bends and dams and bodies
Stand erode falter or swim
Contrarily to no.
I see a tumble of damning world
Against an onslaught of water running
Twice fast babbling corrosive undammed
Negotiation of would be movers
And would be staids
To fall abutting that force of no
World compacted and oncoming contrary
And refusing to be refused.
Comprehending I seen from beside
Downwashing rivers of winter divested
Tossing up upon banks fantastic
In their collected bits bricks between
The brief passage of branches eyes
Bound dreaming birds in flight
fleeing from they as forgotten
Oncoming traffic unpaused