Jesse Miksic

Her Sleep (Is Never Sleeping)

Street Sounds, Receding

Icy lots and sidewalks,

Platforms and platforms —

Concrete waiting.

Going going going

Down going going

Down

Wait train, dark station

Severance segue ship scuttled,

Sung song strained,

Real arrival, rain delay.

There are like a million

Deaths in you.

Which one will you let out?

Profane Song for the Aquifer

She lingers there, picture

Of stillness o!

Sweetwater — half-hid

In measured language

Sweetwater, something

Turnt aside sunlight under

Her corneal veil, but

Her sleep is never sleeping o!

Sweetwater — carve

Your ripple in the

Wall, adjacent sheet

Of gray, you are you

Are that oscillation

Which makes matter,

Matter — penetrating

Flow, a sort of primal

Fiber-optic knowing,

O! What knowledge?

Toothy animal, o

Hungry state of play,

Who carries on her

Sweet and profane holiday —

Sweetwater! Enter us and

Dance and make us gay!

A Feast of Riches

Mine your dreams they are

A deep deep seam

What you haul out in a

Veined bucket:

Ochres of auspice,

The impregnated locust

Of singsong fish-eye refractory

A rude manufacture

Productive with the ombre

Of deep chasm string lights

An ink-dry contaminated spectrum

That loosens the binds

And lets the spiral fall

What fashions this daydream?

Who is bound in the mire,

What name

Did infinity call?

Your body the shade

Of the bounty,

The yield,

The gradient

Vertical

Sprawl.

Siren in the Subtext

A constancy that’s

Threaded through a fabric

Pricked and gathered by a

Piercing literary eye

A child haunts

The sullied artifact,

A scent distinct, a

Glance of perfume

On the air

(A vessel runs the subtext,

Tidal laughter, passing flash

Of tricky chrome)

The perfect turn at play

With poison, fated

Meeting in the parlor light,

A salty eye that never

Wants to close

A broken musket

In the margins,

Strike a cinder,

Yellow teeth

Upon the rose

(Did you see the child?

How she dances, how

She loves to play pretend)

For you she was a

Little phrase oh how

You loved the words

That failed you

In the end.

Jesse Miksic is a graphic designer and writer living in the suburbs of Philadelphia. He spends his life writing poetry, moving various objects around the house, and having adventures with his wonderful wife and daughter. Recent placements include Praxis Magazine Online, Sky Island Journal, Bodega Magazine, and Deracine Journal.

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