D. N. Penglase

1.

the dressing gown denuded across the ceiling forms a rounded face

bitten of winter grass

the in-folding of various manners happened one

by one, together with the click and clamp down

the hall. I was never

the same again

2.

lip of moonlight, again. a what, of bone marrow tickle?

red, purple

clumped out this elb-ow

steam roll / tripper I fear you

have left me without

the required attachments.

3.

You ever creep The subdivision at night?

I am asking you, genuinely:

on which side of the bed

does your pillow fall?

And for example

the listing of moonlight or a toy boat

in the rill.

4.

at the mercy of the state

for years and years

until, puncturetapped

on Shady Tree drive I loped,

looking

for revenge…

5.

Just now, this very moment, the diffuse

and ponderous establishment

architecture of which

and where nothing ever does occur.

Ever notice

the buildout fear

of any bridge with a soft center…?

D. N. Penglase is a poet from Northeastern Pennsylvania.