k  l  o  r  r  a  i  n  e  g  r  a  h a  m

From In a Supralunar World


More    & more now    no one

I say        “no one speaks.”
This style is a style, not something

this style says something        she said:
“I like your style”
then said something

“Those plucky girls upset the roman emperor.”

“Plucky     girls.”


 And if in following    you    have I
    tattooed     “merde”    on my hand?
I am human    only from my knees
    down        my feet
huge                Shall I tattoo “cunt”
    on my hand    Papers stamped “inutile”----
sleeping    on scrub
    going back to bureaucracy    Leaving
bureaucracy for buttered toast        shit in churches
A drink on the steps
below the church   
Who lets us drink on these steps
---- love in these steps


I am occasionally attacked
by        birds of paradise
That  what’s  the  matter  can  only be
What’s the matter still
the  eyes  still  have  it ---- I know
you by your pin-point pupils
all the rest having fallen
into the book
---- look up from pages
cheerful    obscure amused
(But one can parry     parry
or foil
or try to draw a measure


 The sea being in the sea    Call and we shall speak    of
    things     you never thought you’d speak of

Begin with a bird who dislikes the music    Other music    it
    might like   

    In the dream we are two chickens
        in trees above a restaurant near Hemmingway’s house

Little love clucks


 Everybody’s anxiety
Meeting manuals    Failed submission
Bow down desperate we dance
with electronic appliances in
rooms for living
Where we come from we are
&    pulled
You see            We are enraptured


 The nouns    shall woo you        They shall be wooed


Every bed an exit every “almost caught hold of”
then fled        flee but not flee
to every bed    Not at all unaware of fossils    stories    the market place lamplight
the snake charmer I think I know is there would be an original snake
Whatever snake    Dear sweet slither    Every wish to analyze
Every stray saved from exit        For parting


And should I one day be walking, alone, in the woods, at night,
and meet a young woman naked, alone, in the woods, at night,
might I not consider the possibility of blankets, and how one comes
to be walking in such a place at such a time.
It is good to be a poet on the way to the office of the censor,
where one can read all periodicals

K LORRAINE GRAHAM is the editor of Anomaly, a magazine of innovative poetry and poetics with a focus on writers in greater Washington, DC. Her poetry, book, and art reviews have appeared or are forthcoming in Mirage/Periodical, Primary Writing, Poetic Inhalation, Submodern Fiction, The Review of Contemporary Fiction, and elsewhere. She is the author of two chapbooks: Dear [Blank] I Believe in Other Worlds (Phylum Press) and Terminal Humming (Slack Buddha).