the poetry that matters

Christopher Klingbeil

Christopher Klingbeil is from the United States and has lived all over it. While not pursing an MFA at Colorado State, he has most recently worked as a government lumberjack, building trails in the US's National Forests. His fiction has been published in Slush Pile, and, once upon a time, received an Honorable Mention in The Atlantic's Student Writing Contest.



in framed alcove

            curve the mountain


            drove of honking


the impressed heart a space pressed out

            blushed out against

            to fit the space


                                    the low warp compressed


slips in taking flight

the whisp a space

feathers     fingers     past

cut in deftly

                        by paths


draws out impeccably

the harvest grass

steeping in low ebb

            low pressure systems


                        you’re impressing a certain draft


upon the rose bulb of my heart


            the way ward lifts up

geese feathers

the sky as



                                    wound up



            waiting in



the archetypes dictate to  our secretaries the need of

our secretaries the need  neat little vision in sound dictation

your neat little vision in sound  never read was heard we read

the dictation never read  how we sound approaching

was heard we read  all flowers beside their beds

how we sound approaching  a language in all the infantries

how all flowers beside the bed  all the infantries understand

buzzing in a language  all there archetypes sudden distinction

infantries could understand  to feel summoned

archetypes is sudden distinction  to feel ghosting through

only summoned to feel ghosting through  through our doling

through our secretaries doling  your envisioning

your envisioning of out of sound  secretaries out of sound






I cannot continue without waking however drawn out I’m in




all I can say means in pictures I can’t say what it means




I mean to say a light upon a traffic

of dust persuaded to perceive

its rouge of dust itself is light



by which our enterprise is not

not proceeding by but as held

to procession & a view of us

advanced from here your

benedictions to our having

passed already blessings to

our ghosts

                        another light


through which you thread a web of empress of a tone our light

has not the interest of appeasement our light a slant of dust upon

the leaves a reading of such impressed leaves




empress this bridge we are returning finished


            I decided on departure to see us as

                        someone sees us

            I saw the map of roads between us

                        slinking past

            the slinking past a row of light a row of

                        blank fence posts


            as a boat enclosed the trees

                        our forest

            the forest leaves darling do you


            our time yachting in the waves

                        all the ways

            we might draw together and riven



            I can’t tell I’ve found waves across

                        these peaks

            not the yachting you were proposing of


            to know this letters plainly

                                    no more

            speak and so without

                        anyone else

            from this distance this skimmed

                        inside your mouth

            the lettering of distance


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                                                                                                      February 9, 2012