Chaim ben Avram is a writer from Philadelphia. He currently lives, writes,
and teaches in Honolulu, Hawai'i.


it rains in december for six days.
rain from the canopy's brittle end.
relatively stationary, relatively slipping: moss
barked into existence by an owl.
the dark that moon howls without air. city,
your footsteps gone down to the valley
to coax the word into dying less.
its desire to have always been two
cities: touched accidentally on the subway,
the current skated between their eyes of poverty.
about rain, it doesn't fall:
we disband pronouncing earth

yellow wheat & cypresses

I hear you smile.

rutted tree limb, you call those arms.

knee deep moon at rain we stored spring

in urns with rise and waited for fall

your hair under water lake.

the fruit of memory furls

when you pith it, like dewfall pressing

into a pinhole camera a field of sheared wheat.

the taste homeland leaves without you

is the ink ciphering strand apiece.

from the garden of realizing turquoise

the stilted city there time is bent dark eavesdropping on stars.
aloe shoots drift across my lawn hoping to latch onto some dying thing—

the earth could start loud splintering full of cork to utter the sky scraping petal.
you draw to my ear a shell of ocean drowned finite—I know your sound

cicadas follow everywhere I could never grasp,
at dawn they remind me

catch light
catch light


Back to Front.