Poem by Devin Lewis-Green

Gold linked around the lisp
of a thick tongue, cajoled swollen
and past the fault line, something soled shifts

Rust / dune valleys must feel
grandeur as the first sight of dawn, just
leave not the walnut chalk—bleeding as the day’s long

Fold elastic circular around a pigeon
kissing goodbye to the gastric rumbling of
curvatures cultivating cultured clouds in its way—badigeon

dust / sanding keratin in the heat, leave
this landing of familiarity in-home, seat
Did gold ever rust / fold your ink round the winged dust