Alligators
Our place
orbits
itself / it
packs the
continent / & we
feral in
our own / repeating
out / to
kept
glare.
Citizens of
that
rust / deaf
is it
loose / suns
tilt
buildings
to caves / or
widen /
throats
watch
maul.
/
Our place
curves
to
gnarl / us
under
the crane.
Night &
the
black
locks /
piling
golden
blades.
/
Shaped
to
gone / so
groped
out / &
went flare
at
anything.
We
were
in
barrage / season
tore
your
intuitions / toward
reproducing
the
knife / mute
of
the hollowing / to
not.
/
And to
clot low
riot shine /
we
carry
our
own
hands / pouring
in flu
color.
To mapping /
the arcs
of
tusks / or
a
mouth /
excites up
the swamp.
Town, of year
Both. Even
my late intimacy
with hooks
has been
no separation.
If you
repeat out by
tiers
of
minor,
there
remain
vicious some
things I
continue to know.
An exact thing
replicas away.
The
serious gardens
lower their
plants,
then I do not
recall
before we
had our things
imitate
figment,
barely
alter.
Killer of veins,
even the
fevers
continue.
Environments
tearing in,
the only exact
thing.
Matthew Johnstone is the author of Let's be close Rope to mast you, Old light (Blue & Yellow Dog, 2010), o n e (Inpatient Press, 2015), and Note on Tundra (DoubleCross Press, forthcoming 2016). He co-edits 'Pider and hosts the E t A l. poetry readings, both of Nashville, Tennessee.
