In the beginning the world was a trap full of Japanese beetles
oiled glass indeterminate as clockwork knitted root.
We’d try feeding them drops of rose petal tea from the tapered ends of our tongues.
Lay in the crab grass nursing centipedes and submitting to long afternoon naps.

We’d wake up some evenings and the sky would be a new shade
or smudged grey as aluminum.

Crack open like an egg full of cold water.
Every step toward comprehension was a mistake
or every mistake a step.
that’s how I remember, and I was there:

I put away all the garbage into a fragrant bag.
I ate the fruit from the trees without my hands.
I lay down on the carpet and looked for long time at the ceiling.
Talked to someone through a phone.

The cat’s crying.
He wants to kill something on the other side of the window.

I want to stay awake forever,
lit like a hedge from the seed of a cigarette’s ember
Turning the roadside into light.

Something in the body can’t be changed. Or as slowly as it takes to erode.
Sitting in the creek water anyway.


Cover Art: Geodesical, by Veronica Marshall

Justin Evans

Justin William Evans is a poet and electrician and a few other adjacent things. He’s served as Managing Editor of the sound collage podcast and art organism Mystery Meat, Co-editor of Vanilla Sex Magazine, and Poetry Editor of Qu. His poetry has appeared in Five:2:One, Ursus Americanus Press, Metabolism, and elsewhere. He holds an MFA from Queens University of Charlotte.

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