National Poetry Month: THREE UNTITLED POEMS by Graham Foust
Three Untitled Poems
by Graham Foust
Inaccuracy’s inevitable, and even sleep is gestural.
A black oval props open my mouth.
Bundled up and descending a subway staircase, the day done without,
another gash in whatever time I might have left to agree with gravity,
I recognize someone (though not from where I think I do) and if this
is a grief, it’s an easy one, a lowish tax that bankrolls my own recent
appearances on the oxygen side of the sky.
Now back to pain in a room lit with teeth.
Of what forgotten use was my intending to be empty, my listening to be
Awake in the dark at the start of a day, I could tell by the noise from the
cars on the road that it had rained.
This poem is from issue 37.2. You may purchase a copy here.