Graham Foust



Lack of nostalgia / felt as nostalgia—

once just a taste,

that’s now the daily mouth,

and mirrors are older than bread.

Near to a thought

that’s not yet cooled to truth—

that’s one way to live, or half of one,

but what’s its knowledge like?

Like touch? Like reading? Like sleep?

Why, in other words,

or in cubes of wet neon on dirt,

the one face?

And why’s the other unlooked upon, into, for?

Everyone who’s dead’s now “problematic”—

leave that out of this.

You’re where you write not fading into traffic.

But that rumor’s always attached to here

is absolutely capital—you hear

of a bird; you hear, in fact, a bird.

A few hours blocked the day,

and in the meantime, you got that way,

or this, and then rushed to curtail a view.

A little sunlight on

and then eventually through

your eyelids boots your body up,

and with that, at little last,

the spasm into what you’re going to do.

Come high bright noon

and come the corollary thorn,

you’re going to sit right down

and write yourself a flower you can sing when you’re sad

but you’ll be glad when you sing,

your songs instanced by the looks of things

now lost in some fire or fires

and so weightless as the best of spires,

a cumulus of what you hunt

and of how what you hunt haunts

and so hunts you back,

its ghost so many demoed amens.

Being—not staying—the course is the trouble;

places yet to be, opportunities to grieve,

a strangely damaging wind around

your city that serves, in a world young or lapsed,

as something like a budding grove’s inverse,

thus adding blame to bliss, you’ve stopped somewhere

but think pains to keep moving the aforesaid social 
hole along,

the poem or the song that never knows how dead,

dead or not, you are (or how gone)

and then makes its only sounds until it fades—


(like a worm in a church does)




and then sticks out your blood.