National Poetry Month: 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

not misunderstood?

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.