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Her Sleep (Is Never Sleeping) 

Street Sounds, Receding 


Icy lots and sidewalks, 

Platforms and platforms — 

Concrete waiting. 

Going going going 

Down going going 



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 





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.


deathcap is Coven Editions' online literary mag featuring a curated collection of poetry, fiction and community pieces.  Review our Submissions Guidelines for more information if you are interested in contributing to deathcap.

© 2020 Coven Editions

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