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Matt Rasmussen

A POEM IN WHICH LEAVES FIGURE PROMINENTLY

 

 

 

I fall asleep, waking to find

a poem in which leaves

 

figure prominently. If you

tear all of the skin away

 

leaving only the veins,

they are miniature trees

 

the poem informs me.

I nod off when it describes

 

snow falling, warm as living skin.

The poem is right though,

 

warm snow would be nice

to lie down and sleep in.

 

This leaf is orange,

my dream last night: poorly lit.

 

But the snow falling though it,

whiter than real snow

 

which isn’t really white at all

just a deflection of light before

 

it melts into puddles the color

of whatever hovers above.

 

 

 

YOUR BODY IS A TEMPLE IS A BODY AGAIN

 

 

Your stained glass

depicts the holiness

 

of gun flash.

The tapestries hung

 

in the cathedral

honor the doom idol’s

 

peeled-open, copper

face. To turn around

 

during The Tapping

of the Divine Shoulder

 

is a transgression.

In The Sacred Image

 

at City Beach you kneel

while your hands

 

are buried to the wrists.

Praise the hallowed

 

hollow-point, the negation

creation. Thus Enters

 

the Holy Bullet.

Your worshippers’ arms

 

float upward as though

tied to invisible birds.

 

Only they have no hands,

they’ve sunk them

 

into the sky.

I laid the cornerstone

 

over your deathface

then we burned

 

your sanctuary

to the bone and poured

 

it down the ground’s

black throat. Your life

 

was just a doorway,

and hovering above you

 

a red voice urging

EXIT.

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