Logan Fry
Pinker on Trial
I remake the world the study’s tent.
Those keener
than me have also
clamored for a staff, for nudging
this fine tome
of peak investments nearer toward
the juror’s pulpit, maybe even opened.
The ritual of figures
I think of as sedative
I think of as sedative
the printer said
reflected ‘a page rejecting its own ink.’
It’s fine. I can extract
nutrition from dissent. Who of you is it
who scurries up the limb
to etch bark with a blade as dull as class
distinction, poor graft from noble category,
like that what is pink is
by reason purer
because the finer its betweennesses,
its birth invented in the western word,
by a science.
I saw
nature’s law as the sum of plumbing:
an egg to place
in big fact’s nest
and nestle deep in an invented crux
upon a limb. (Note here:
if a tree’s ‘improved’
that is to say its soul is optimal.) I can’t
say I’ve ever heard
a bird. The stir that scurried over
its limb wasn’t squirrel. Can’t say
ever I heard a squirrel sure.
I could admit a peevishness admitting
it—a faint blush tints the glass
bouffant I hover under,
peering up, mask
to the plaster, to where the thinness
bursts at mere mention’s enlightenment.
Logan Fry
Possession’s Steam
Calipered perforations of
Passerine gladness netted.
Words come when called.
Unclaw distrusted symbol

Meant-as inset laid-in the pass an index
Makes across a page’s skin.
Lake of ink as windlapped is the nestegg.
Fuller, is the begging here?

Has the beg begun about the hole?
Molting of crassness
To gather and constrain into a pot,
Wilting a have-error,

Noting the knot is a character among the feed.
Of a sessile emergence less of are the sufferers.
Can a pillow to put it head of the chamberbed.
You gnaw at the knot with their mossed teeth.
Logan Fry
Fuss of Brick

Let it be condonable:

full of no’s oil, a lamp

tilts over a district no bleaker for intention’s law the kerosene lacked.

Lacked nothing Herbert would’ve spared his host, no kneebent duty

could prove to honor

the blade is dulled just from the opening, fiddle bowed on the glass’s

seam. Hate is the inert one. Once summer’s swollen in full sun a day

it’s gone to where bloat’s a feature. I’ve smeared a lone brick in flame

to tease the intention

out in the mark sifted back to circulation. An arch etched vile above

your stable’s wet hay,

a busy vision its curses lap up, stitches fissured into the law’s wound.

My rake pulls up ore

no body can lay claim to when it’s done, the fire dusk made makes yes

dusk’s fire, nurse for

the heat’s rid fear. I pile up in hay the fact that speed ripens to density.