i had to read several books to come back to reading this one.

to be ready to read i say but the book never changes. the color on my nails
changes though in order to permit a thought of another color. suspend the
makeshift bridge between two trees farther apart. she remains in her
pajamas all day resting. but at some point taking a long bath bubbles even
maybe. pluck the courage of hair follicles. razor burn a side buttress. the
reading which is new to this book but not the one before it enlivens the lives
of potential lovers. she grooms herself while sitting reading the new book.
sketch out a probable line of import to the left of each stanza even when
there are none. i sit alone eat hot chinese knowing the result will be
unpleasant dreams. she softly strokes her shoulder where another hand
might once have grown. in the book circles of favored words obscure
meanings potentialities. this one drives me to write she thinks. and nobody
stops unannounced thus preventing panic since the mask is not yet applied.
oh and the runaway ideas that spread throughout the moment of page




About the Author: gary lundy’s poems have appeared most recently in Cleaver Magazine, In Between Hangovers, The BeZine, Fragmentarily/Meta-Phor(e)/Play, and Vallum. His chapbook, at | with was recently published by Locofo Chaps. each room echoes absence, his second full length book, will be published this fall by FootHills Publishing. He is a retired English professor and queer living in Missoula, Montana.