Tag Archives: Andrew Ruzkowski

Prairie Shapes

Braid metallic twine, the backyard diamond’s lattice. Thin shadow-grass spears cloud. Between the birdsong of posts heat breathes gravel. Membrane-shell cracks in fractals. From scales of robin-blue, dirt tills dawn. Wire teeth sing war cries like August lightning. Distanced grey … Continue reading

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Divination Pastoral

In the stitching of an aubade or something dawn, your flesh swells with yeast and pulses, traffic-like. Each vessel in your thigh pinched vulture-black, each capillary swaying blue. Each dependent reaction laps the edge of action. Of course, the necessity … Continue reading

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Belle Isle

There is a retreat             in your fingers.                         The wheel                                     drives                                                 the water,                                     drives distance. Something                         like a melody             carves                         sand and shell.             Your voice                         shards                                     from window                                     to mirror. I sing the gray cloud’s din of rock and leaf. Waves … Continue reading

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Dream Litany

The stone             churches huddle             together along Elmdale and love one             another in stained glass, or the way             a set of knees rub apologetically against the stained wood pew.   I could enter the church,             anoint self:             Head,             sternum, clavicle to … Continue reading

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For the self, the non-self, memory, or An Act of Whirling

This would happen if I was a stone in a sling             shot, an arc between mouths             or the result, a stove-in             cranium,             a tangent happening. A touch          or mouths touching, a sling.             My broken collar bone. Your                         broken language (un)happens,             then … Continue reading

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Take this Vision with your Mouth Closed

Here is where our small hairs become stands             of rib cages cross- sectioned and fraying gray matter. It is in this space,             the white turns body to a point, blind. When we lie with each other in my skull and … Continue reading

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