Katie Bradshaw

discreet, discrete (are secrets)


ISSUE 41 | INFAMY | JUN 2014

there's fire everywhere

there’s fire everywhere
taking this serious
abstract life finds little objects
under lean skin tunnel vision
grows stronger takes over
wind propulsion towards
forward thus growing
hearing yelling
outside is now

what’s in the beehind
sweeping hair blur
goes out of focus
fewer faces, out of tune
the simpler the colors become flowers
the storm had something to do with it
thunder flashes frozen
something fair
something else happens

delicate sphenoid
disarticulated
only quiet next to a green bud
how do strangers
get closer, are they
not strangers?
keen to be here
a new tree
under rain finds the timing

 

like fading

like fading
it steps to the side
out to the sky dome
everything grows larger

the eyes close
and open again
a black dome
curve awareness

the moon confuses
constant or what moon
a randomness
here being, here now

a glow replaces
your moon as it
looked saw a pop
blip to black

the moon looks down
all black sameness
it answers same everywhere
yes know why

same implying sameness
as a now—
a dirty body
has questions

 

discreet, discrete (are secrets)

they cloud over your city
see them as the rising
this sun contrasts
meets the setting of yours
digging out becomes
collecting
you see, source memories collide
past catches up
(waiting for it)
a beard floats
over the lake
sources require
building something overlapping
superimposed now over
eyes, delicately hunched
we stay, we go
the things,
see this bustle
see this long hair,
unmistakably articulate
participating with
downriver swans
– breaking off

 

Everybody wants to

Everybody wants to
before they leave town.
That smell we walked towards
you said coffee roasting
but I always knew it as my body sweating,
bread-smelling children.

Maybe you were right.
Academic-looking women
with glasses tucked into their hats.
You owe me in winter,
owe me your hardness
or, career advice.

Your things to do
tick tock down at the bottom
of Lake Superior.

 

New Woman

You told me about
a new woman at your office
with platforms high.
More rounded than one usually sees,
a mix of geisha sandal and disco sex,
how looking at her legs tempted you.
How I make you constant
in the accusative playing.
Music as I read,
as I write
my hand grows stronger.
How will it translate,
across the way
hearts on every grate
jittery hands.