CHAIM BEN AVRAM
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
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