To alight with a tufted titmouse, next to you, tapping a boot on the ground, lifting motes of dirt, carried like smoke. Yes, a brusque kiss is a gap.
Gap gap gap which we pulled dead turtles from formaldehyde filled jars, examining the scutes, the nose, the markings, in an empty classroom.
Minerals are restless, in wind, settling while moving on. It’s all about the eyes though. That little bird seems like the closest thing to innocent, and I always associate innocent with bleak. Go on, shake a fist at bullying over bird seed, and the old dog that still barks below, incapable of catching anything. Forget exposition and resolve. There is a moment where it is still light and moon flowers begin to bloom. .
I tell you once, In the guest bedroom of my childhood home, on the cream carpet I picked up a thin dark blue book without a title On the inside, it held the author’s name, Piers Piesjupiter, with a contract to sign.
Bell shaped flowers appeared hooked in aphasia. I recorded your observance, swirls, red, black, how one smiled. No palpitation.
The titmouse was gone, and you looked around for bones to stir dead leaves, thorns to spring the marrow,
hooker bell flower
golgotha embarkment of skull
spwum aft lust
arrange, there is schism here, y gyroscope
a molded, goatskin silence before drying, the eieie drying.
urge lessens despite time.
dust hangs from a jilt milieu.
amongst these golden brown brush strewn hills, roots entangle stone. and there’s wonderment.
where is the hollow, in echo? if trees network, this page has taste.
you didn’t lick the page and you’ll regret it for the rest of your life.
the succulence, eco-soma, quell. what’s left.
Kevin Kvist Peters was born on a small island in Florida and grew up in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. He graduated with an MFA in Creative Writing from Saint Mary's College of California in 2016. His work has appeared in a few places.
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