Three Poems

Andrew K. Peterson


The Dream Mines Inside the Dream Canary Unbutton the Coat from Your Back

and for verbal oranges I build a hangar of willows
and for sentiments lost in woods I loose myself in woods
and for mornings of unwashed hair I talk blue to the green parts of an atlas
and for curiosity I knead sculptures from leftover corners of reading eyes
and for your face behind newspaper I glue veils from unpulped trees to a cloud
and for necessities of dreams I blowdry winterized graffiti to your heart
and blowdry winterized mirrors to my heart
and Heimlich coal from the lungs’ canary it drinks
and for this hunger of your sorrow I will fly in goods
and for someone who won’t wake up today I dance these strings into the Age of Autumns
and for some fine grained memory of morning I sketch chords on the window of a rudder
and for another moment the rudder goes round and round

All My Battle Cries Are Sugar Free
After Lorca
Not all love can be explained. – Khloe Kardashian

Not all love can be explained
that you’re cicada to our sway, where astral
concretes beneath a blackened marsh field
that Adonis once went head to head with his shadow, lost
by a landslide. the way a Shanghai heatwave is a little brother
or how it always rains on your folk fest. show me
how I’m working out torments, I’ll show you a Beach
Boy. Such is the life of improvisation. that a plan
to walk Ophelia home “by the longest route
possible”  is all I want, is: rain to rain on, for the wish & this
street to disperse another secret: that I
wants a different want. forgives
mute charm & that a waxing move convinces
when the wolves come home
that its thief rages in the night
when another thief stole his thief.
That stolen night brings solace to nothing
but a name, a stamp of the season you send in an envelope.
Thems are gone, and can be no nearer. Now,
for the love of sake, you come to undo your
removals. Are free. Is all we do, be by. do
you mind that saying so, if it’s so, lies only in its wake
that I am in love with all great and terrible things: boiling
hinges, the soft secret in heat transfer. Not all
love can be explained. Some days you don’t
have enough hands to carry all you have: & still you have
two to learn: to grasp less: grass that feeds on
that it grows with or without  withering
that the heart, they say, is the original search engine
that I’ve been looking through the ray of its results corona
that it is so trying for being made a home inside anyone’s anyone, so just
give us your hands, your cool with the waking windows
& the reflex of sundials
that to live this town by the very corners
in the sway the sway that breathes our clothes right off
brides and grooms stripped bare by their presence
of large movements in small rooms where all love can be explained
where all my battle cries are sugar free, galaxies
drip down the spines of all the buried
dance moves still yet to be uncovered

Figures Lying Down
After Sargent, i.m. Anselm Hollo

Some moment alone in the room I regressed and grew in, again
I’ll think the sick wasp on a blue comforter, tissue I brought it
outside with, & gentle, & times before. & Amina: “Back then
it had seemed as if I was living a life after
it had already ended. Now I could hardly take in enough.”
She who goes in, strength to strength, already becoming mythic
I think Natalie Wood “pert, likeable, lively, with it, can take a joke
friendly, vivacious”   & Jeff Buckley    “Go now, come back
Tomorrow”   & Tony Conigliaro,    tragic boy with a balloon for an eye
Melville,  “but purely fabulous creature, I imitate, take from the like
figures on antique vases”      Gaby, via Rossetti, a child’s verse I never
give, “spare / and be spared – or who shall plead for them”
Lying on the left side, heavy heart to ground, wonder what
I’m missing inside
the night commutes, how much I watched that Citizen
sled curl up inside its own smoke   & Sphere Monk’s
“pure music from external forms, deeper structures, corrupted
by nothing” & St. Anselm, “Maybe not so far to go, not so long
ago, still roaming the contradictory corners” of you, myself
alone of dark theaters or the couches, soft
barricades “he speaks from the wound / & how to woo” “whose coup
do you coo to, & rattle out the loosest
change” A pink or white then yellow
rose that burns my sleeve         If I want this kind of night,
is it mine  alone again these figured dream figures in repose
topple inland by the sea  lots of lost loots
& lots & lots of lovely ceilings

Andrew K. Peterson is the author of three books of poetry, most recently some deer left the yard moving day (BlazeVox 2013). His chapbook bonjour meriwether and the rabid maps (published by Fact-Simile, 2011) was recently featured in an exhibition on poet’s maps at the University of Arizona’s Poetry Center. He edits summer stock, an online literary journal, and lives in the Boston area.

Fanzine’s fall series editor is Ella Longpre.