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journal for new poetry
William Stanier
Texas Noir
Bugs rise barely breathing,
snap-able pinwheels without
an ounce more in torque.
Noon: when shadows tether
to their referents.
Insufferable tour guides
back-peddling through rows of Italian fir.
Other trees, what did we name them?
The imaginary ledger of things
you point at and say, Wow.
A stone in the middle of it,
and below that a body.
All of our enemies
justly murdered by their butlers.
Yours truly, like a journalist
on a losing streak only aware of spaces
yanked out from under the real.
The language arts,
which do nobody any good.
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