2 poems
Geography Sonnet
If a cloud could coo, or cluck—then what? If a cloud cowers at the edge of a canyon, thinking “I’ve been here before.” The cloud does coo; we hear it! Doves coo, as do pigeons. They coo their similitude. Now shadows fill the canyon like water in a bathtub. The mailman stumbles over the curb delivering not a single telegram. I was jaundiced at birth but fixed in the sun like a photograph of myself. For years, I was a photograph progressing rapidly through inseams. I exited the bathroom into a pincer maneuver; whereby the red force envelops the advancing blue force. A blue hat lays somewhere under the green side of the earth.
Small Talk
Dirigible air parade berth above Honeymoon Bay. Drizzle as a dollar word, keyboard schmutz is here to stay. One of my guilty pleasures, but how guilty? Tater tot lapdog of the establishment, the candor of left-handed dancers. All I wear are gold toes. Between alone and not alone—there I am. Scuffs make a sneaker say, “Hey!” Mandible crunch going total vore in the poem, take a stab at the orchestra. Sub- patterns of laughter resonate from the limbic. Amidst the mist and connoisseurs of parallelograms maybe tootsie with the talent. Gigglenastic knickerbocker. An eye sore, or a sight for sore eyes, I don’t know which.
Will Stanier is a poet and a letterpress printer living in Tucson, Arizona, where he's an MFA candidate in poetry at the University of Arizona. He's the author of a chapbook and an artist’s book, called “Pizza Place." Recent work may be found at tenderness lit, Yes, Poetry, Cleaver Magazine, and Partial Zine.