Vocal Cord Confetti, Bright Come Up
Revised in your light like an apple ball
istic night—a pen mark, a sound effect,
my dead plant, the sound “yes.” I’ll go till these
pills are a dove, until I was woke. Damp
moonlight ignored. Too many moonlights. A
flashbulb hot in the dark until I was
woke. The smash above my head pushed light to
a different color. A bowl of banan
as thus love and so, records the light. Un
finished rose. Symmetrical ear. Who
holds scissors? Orange against the downward. Its
branch shadow spastic—my shade, my nightfall
again peels the moon, carries the egg with all
answers to rise to this to not to be.
Four white hairy moons
hiding in blue hairy fruit.
One for her one night.
Cloud No Violet Look Down With White Scribble-
Surround. My hands drawn with eyes. Over
black papyrus strips—a kind of dream. Peers
together after midnight. The black marks
describe the street. The woods. The empty streets.
The details: young people on black plastic
blow-up rafts. Sunspots decked with breath. Turning
over commotion. I can’t sleep insane
green. Obese mites full of moon showing their
form. Ducks look down on lakes. Ladybug
remains on my desk for months. Contained scrib-
bles: lengths of time. Dirty plates. STDs
or white fuzzy infections. Again obese
mites full of moon obscuring metal golden
gods. Manias. Up the street, within eyeshot,
the one covered in went—you are morning.
You’d Have To Come
Back To Leave
My Blinking Eyes Boiling Violet.
One shade of orange trapped
in another shade. My fingerprint blown up.
a height, my pupil’s shape, a dollop.
A legless orange
horse in our arms.
Come Out Of Neither Iris Near, Less, Blown
Do you want from me? Fan. Lune. Waver.
Could this be the wind? Think of
the background missing a corner from once
beneath the rain. Hidden in light
the sun called news.
The sun’s remains
on display. Six dots, now seven, unwound.
Morning parts. Clean sparks.
Yesterday a nipple trying the language
paving my sleep an endless
stop, a dark green.
My breath overgrown.
White pattern bang.
We wait for our guide to
translate the plant. The sky
active in faces. I turn my head to
one arm out the car window. Eye contact.
Where the air blew the sky,
ferns growing along a highway.
A second whelm. That day
night in the pond.
Whatever is able.
The sky linked to
another sky and so on
and soon every now discarded
angel speckle. Countless gravity
out in the far.
Nothing at the window,
though I turn my head
replaying the color.
The sun not available
in red: continuous on.
Palms. Rooms of
unstructured gold dust.
The site runs yellow lots
across my screen. The site gives
her yellow grass. No breeze.
Peeks, daylight garage,
like me this once.
Complete light on the verge
asking to see me.
Paris, Texas stuffed
in small boxes. The sun
through the tree in my eyes
stunning. When I look up
her eye wild pictures
keeping characters, evenly.
Buds everywhere in a tree.
Catherine Blauvelt is a 2012 graduate of the Iowa Writers’ Workshop. In 2013, she won the “Discovery” / Boston Review Poetry Contest. Her poems have appeared in Boston Review, The Iowa Review, Prelude, and SAND among others journals. Her chapbook “Nearly Yes, Only You” is forthcoming from H_NGM_N Press.
Samantha Mitchell is an artist and writer based in Philadelphia. She was born in New York City and holds an MFA from the Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts. Aside from her work in the studio, Mitchell works at the Center for Creative Works, a studio for adults with developmental disabilities, and is an editor for Title Magazine, a publication devoted to writing on the arts in Philadelphia.