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Keegan Lester

Keegan Lester’s poems are forthcoming or published in: Powder Keg, The Journal, The Atlas Review, Revolver, Blunderbuss, among others.

the topography of what they don’t tell you about this line of work

 
 
 

the topography of what they don’t tell you about this line of work


the topography of what they don’t tell you about this line of work


the topography of what they don’t tell you about this line of work


moments when time is still
& undecided


i consider cb radios to confirm hypotheses


& the poetry of carrier pigeons, their cooing


so close to coup


i’m comforted

by the misinterpretation


of their violence.

the others only see


the edge of this world,

as a kite

is a decoy

         for a pilot.

 

 

 

*

 

people started with hoarding small things: thimbles, thread, anti-biotic and syringes. when the news was confirmed, they hoarded larger items: orcas, polar bears, jackals and a yellow school bus. they dug a hole so deep into the earth, oxygen could barely finger it. then the presidents and dictators and celebrities in droves filed into the earth. it was rumored there would be plenty of board games, televisions and visionaries, though pandas weren’t invited. neither was alabama, croatia, the sudan, nor chile among others. i wasn’t invited. soon it was just us and the mayans shaking their heads and quiet:

 

**


as sudden, morning begins

a carnival from the next world over. from the next world over

entertainers is all we are.

 

as sudden, morning begins

 

lantern & gaff, flounder gigging
the northern lights

 

their afterglow wading

into the river to bathe.


someone touches herself.


someone hums.


the world’s melting,


only the tinkers

& carnie sideshows could sense it.


they the only ones allowed to leave their kingdoms.

 


*

 

i have to remind myself that i asked to live out of a suitcase.

 

in bed, the constant apparition

 

a moon ebbing from something

 

into something else.

from the next world over

 

this world looks like strings of light

attached to two great circles.   

 as close to what can

touch heaven

 

as the moths that think they can glow.

 

people on the television


begin to look more like me.

 

i make habit of kissing the screen. i consider making


birthday cakes, calling this the great dance. 

 

i start using more french in my english. i’m not

lonely because i’ve renamed

 

lonely. i’ve renamed


the world: a puddle

of apricot derision.

 

i’ve asked politely, even hoped you’d take  your own life before i’d have to.

 

a drone of violence blossoms this fugue. 
i wake up 

 

one morning pleased to meet you.


i take my name the next.