Hey, Horizon

  

I wake Greco-Roman.

I crest like a potbelly.

 

Coloring calendars.

Blessing binoculars.

 

Something rings me.

The clouds ring, too.

 

Thursday and Friday

play me bicycle bells.

 

I write in pilotspeak,

flail semaphorically.

 

Only I, in this raft,

have not cried yet.

 

Saturday coaxes coughs

from us. Sunday makes

 

lapping wave sounds.

Whereís the continent

 

Iíll kiss like a grandparent.

Gull, will you fly to it.

 

Nostalgia 

 

Here, in the out-of-business

graveyard where cats sleep

in the grass of our patria,

documents crawl and kindle,

immolating for smokeís sake.

 

Iím jointing the paper skeleton

of these sentiments with brass

fasteners. Itís thick cardstock,

so the poses hold. The bones

luminesce when we go home.

 

Not every effigy offends me.

It would take hours to leave

softly enough for my toys

to keep rank on the carpet.

My foot is a terraformer.

 

Itís dark in the countryside

that moderates our passage.

Remember when a camera

swung towards the swamp

where the vamp wallowed?

 

Letís go back to the last light

of my glowing bones, to ash-

muffled mewls, to our house

that couldíve chronicled more

than just how tall we all were.


________________________________________


Justin Runge lives in Lawrence, Kansas, where he serves as poetry editor of Parcel and helms Blue Hour Press. He is the author of two chapbooks, Take Our Picture as You Sleep (Gold Wake Press) and Plainsight (forthcoming from New Michigan Press). Poems of his have appeared in Linebreak, DIAGRAM, Harpur Palate, and elsewhere. He can be found at www.justinrunge.me.