Joel Chace
a rolling abyss

frozen water pipes --
rural, red monstrosity --
a face like his face

dissonant stranger --
for all she knew, it was night --
neat as a suntan

fistful of closures --
we wanted to bend her clocks --
then the march ended

their featured gambit --
a conference of ailments --
remembering rocks

oversight bunker --
the rest of us will wait here --
his irony zone

they seek an ellipse --
keeping the tome fires burning --
she hires breakfast clowns

evangelicals --
“there are turtles in our soup!” --
a rolling abyss

single file costumes --
in the wee small hours of --
“pitt, pitt, pitt,” pitt-pitt

ripples on concrete --
to rehearse, or, or not to? --
where there are seven

his crooked fingers --
an underrated province --
torn between the scales