S.G. MALLETT

Arc-texture

I was cold, and each drain ditch was my guide.

I saw it done and happiness came

like a made thing, a pre-wrapped present of sense.

I am those elements what did him in.

I heard a third of the waters became wormwood,

The emerald ash

borers are outside our control as notes inscribed in

stone in snow would

need a gentle brush, force your hand and you stray

from the paths their signs

required. If there are dogs, they exist far away,

and their barks arrive

as though from a void. Bright green shoots

sag under absent leaves,

for leaves were what we came to see.