« David Blumenshine | Contents | Ryan Collins »

Lindsay Coleman



These windows are the cats’ TV’s

and the bright cars zooming past is

the channel they feel like watching.

So we watch.


Sometimes I start wondering.

But then the tiny robot pencil sharpener roves across my desk.

I think it came from all the times

I wanted to put it in a poem.


“Curiosity is the hallmark of the intellect”

So we endure this mental reaching for

the rest of our lives. Or

we die. One time I looked out the window


where a raccoon was doing Tai Chi on the lawn.

My dad marched right out and shot it. At my own funeral

I hope lots of people cry, and that I don’t wake up suddenly to see

one of them not crying.







In Norway in the dark

months there’s no atmosphere.


The bulb of space presses down

down and everything and everyone feels

frozen, naked: closer


to the universe than ever. The hum

of starlight in their veins, a single note held

just below the glass-

shattering point. In Norway no windows


burst open from wind or revelation. 

Nothing so fantastic happens

as when the night sinks its whole weight


in a small town. No bodies rise up

from displacement.




Sea Lab 

We build a sea lab on the edge of the Mariana trench

as if we’re camping in your backyard

years ago. No stars.

No one we love knows

or cares we’re here.

Blue questionables

thrumming up, mouthless.

Forget instruments. We’ve brought

too many senses here.

We’ll have to

slow. Dumb down. Breathe

less. Dark beyond

dark pressing in

like a heartache to make us part

of its general erasure. Why

would anyone come here?

What’s the point of the sound

the sea makes so far down.

You wear a lab coat.

I collect PH samples,

man the echo beams.

Promise I’ll never turn

these lights off.

We’re miles below anything

resembling anything.



« David Blumenshine | Contents | Ryan Collins »