Michael Labate lives in Woodbridge, Ontario. His poetry and short fiction have previously appeared in The Hart House Review, The Varsity, and other University of Toronto publications.
A taxidermied lung dribbles words and sounds
like spat-up gravel. A city
cape of sharp birds disorients
shadow herds and splinters spilt sun.
| An empty elevator says. |
An air shock tugs a colony of tangled trees.
A cigarette distils reality.
A peeled sky sweats
slow snow. A bus ride falls asleep.
| A starved elevator stays. |
A fifth floor telephones a fourth floor to negotiate
collapse. A ceramic stomach
stifles gastric pangs.
A locked jaw drools icicles.
| A stuck elevator gapes. |
A stumped spine stunts chakras. A baffled body
blurts a blistered brain. A bird shard
boomerangs. A coffee wins coffee?
A clap. cramp. A
| A blank elevator waits. |