Fire the fallow, farm the mirage


                         for Alana Siegel, Dan Owen & Dana Ward


Curling often now he dandles

time, that rocky place

for our occupation I felt

innocent of, round eyes


far away, meatly nestled in

disappointment, nostalgia

lichen-laced is delicious against

antique we lust, the mechanism


copes, pushes dirt toward

copse, road, till stars relent

new salt, parcel-parched

in field office in fescue is


venue for listening to Lou

Reed, Leonard Cohen,

chimeral kiss milky tincture

of which equals archive


 surviving fealty through

nakedhood, that is, friendship,

high, damp near shadow

side of sumptuary... Hear


pneumothorax and think

butterflies, hear the radio,

think medicine, laureate and

it's "Eugenio, please come


where I can see," spiritual

monocle through which

laurels absorb storm, springish

bromide, your dream, us


foxes feeding on strawberries

or feeding foxes strawberries

or feeding berries themselves

or just the colors, state by


state, what angel impulse, basket

case morning's plain arms

wrap, wingéd seeds to fool

the heart as void does past


compensation (concurrently

nude notebook joy and rage

interannotate, moral mystic

embellished past legibility


 —sugar, augar, ink, no truck

with endarkenment—whereas

my soil hurts, blighted, united

in AUMF, now, therefore, be


it resolved: friends, competent

tribunals wanted), we don't give

enough, grieve enough, share

maybe pennies, very little


common gold... Oh, wild

raring, sweet evaporate who

crests whole, fruiting stalk,

my life is when observation


speeds to full, full sensing of

strawberries, hers, into violet

almost, amnesty, for hours not

spent awing our concentric


concentrations, juice at dawn,

forensic love, nakedhood,

remember to take your sun

medicine, radio talisman, take


a walk when Hannah can't

cry, "it's just a flower made out

of's hard to live in

the city" but I'll paper these


 walls however Jamie wants,

dapple whatever we can't

paper, play Lou, Leonard,

Erik, sit up in the dark


in orange wingback, perfect

venue for waiting, after all

we all are fruiting stalks, this

thorax, red into violet, berry-


pick a way past nakedhood

you're sure to miss alphabet

of which baby-pleads for

chiral kiss, out of the field


office and into the fescue, out

of the forage grass and into

the field, out of the fire and

into the fallow, that is, if


we plan to go night clear, bring

new salts, berries, warped

wingback, paisley tears: our

observation has sped up, how


terminal each rosette, yet

sadness, will it go? Fast,

slow, like water on pavement,

pennies in politics, like blame


on education, fangled ego

in horizontal vision, flocculent

like shame on small children,

molluskan, bullets in desperation,


drones not aimed at civillians,

like mauvish bromides in rivers

flow to every crack along young

muds, freeze, break apart, go,


that rocky place, or sweet

evaporate, be, no truck,

a dewsome thing we watch, like:

"please come where I can see."



Gracie Leavitt, whose poems and translations have appeared or are forthcoming in anthologies and journals such as 6x6ConjunctionsCritical Quarterly and Lana Turner, is the author of Monkeys, Minor Planet, Average Star (Nightboat Books). She grew up in Maine and lives in Brooklyn, NY.