Cynthia Arrieu-King


Oxberry Rostram Camera


The taste of wine and lilac sunset
is about to be invented.

And up makes us hopeful as a berry's tilt.
Someone makes all this bullshit:

A moved doll, a whole scene of jerky.
A smile on the face of the slow.

Bread made of earth without the intervening
mill. Nothing to grasp with, and

two heavy block feet without toes.
Tulips sway as if being passed by a car

from the cardboard hills, the terra firma
so that bottlebrush foxes will have a fluid

approach. An incremental creep along steel
track helps the lens pull the oxcarts

and peasant women forward, clearly
made from bushels of clay, watched and

arranged. Or else there's only one world.
I love the name of a camera that doesn't exist.





Airplane low over the burnt yards, Alleghenies
alert with pine tree stubble,
I read a comedian grown in white suburbia

knows his kid will in a few years spill the dinner gravy and he
will completely lose it

bark, attack, tie ripped, racking the brass trivet on sides.
We know that answer like a fact.
Our moon is essentially gray — or blank, the mystery object
found in an archeological dig on a beach
mostly ground up shell & crab. Turns out it's             the back of a clock,
cheap, patinaed circle with holes punched through

as incompatible with antiquity,
as squeezed into the jeans of importance as

jazz piano streaming while a gasman reads the meter?

Bam, gravy spills, anger spills: two things saturate, damp sag,
put together that were not
meant. Linked, the computer directs:

Continue only if you really are fhends with Kathy.
Continue only if you are afraid of the sun.