GUY R. BEINING ant ant ant ant ant six

October 3, 2011 § Leave a comment

The Back Streets Of A Snail




pinned to the sleeve

of the highway


we of one market

one leaf one fruit bin

await flies & rot


washes whiter

in quiet of evening

dark creak of table


bring me

the room of

a swollen number


in mock soup

& fan of turtle shell

sore-kneed Buddha


offer pictures of mecca

while playing a dangerous

game of marbles


bubbles that

hear flat skin of



heavy black glove

nearsighted & brusque a bee

breasts pressing mirror


hand on

soiled number 9

paper off the roll


order of night

a hyphenated thought

left in onion patch


inhabit this

the back streets

of a snail


gets you no further

from nature to circle

the tree in spanish


white lips powders

space left by stars



in glass rooms air

listens to itself covers

of light fall & fold


a yellow ball from

the women in chairs opens

the crematory steps


draw space as maximum

silverware in her hair

& shells to eat with


words burn

a cut above the spine

sitting on divan


rush hours middays other

times black band around

the sky bright eyes


the membrane falls

from a table of ferns

stock multi-bodied


another charred

boat has left

the dock of dreams


open blossom or

bloom of voice

in insect light


and invention

nefarious angles in

bitter snow drifts


and long white wings

the estuary on

its dark toes


a circle of mirrors

shut out the stars

people don’t know



the pin as ice pick

buying the night face


colored sharpness

of wild card in

stenciled parlor car


go toward

the buried side

of vision


dire briefness of

lot pocket it even if

it blackens the soul


the moon is not

a number it is a landfill

a gap in the eye


on head of mountain

grievous we have maintained

a private clasp



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