Julie Doxsee

Three Poems


Clouds take blue from could. Could be clouds are the rind of a ripe sky.

An outside eye holds all lakes and oceans in one mirror.

The body casts an object onto its shadow two or three times. An eclipse lives nowhere then wrestles awake. Nighttime can’t stretch darkness when the moon is engulfed by noise.

Hold a piece of dust at arm’s length and watch its two-dimensional twin burn at noon. Gray stranger, make your gray a happier thing. Nighttime erases as it grows over the eye.

The earth’s rind forms the hard outer layer where fruit sprouts. Leaves detach from xylem after sucking skin. A rock conducts its upside-down mountain.

Discovery invites the collapse of something high. Sky. Paradise. Wing-pilot. Echelon. Uncrater holding bits of ground.

Uncover the rock. Fig leaves fall off and die, but there are more fig leaves in a grove you’ll visit naked.

Erosions II

Meteors orbit other rocks as a planet orbits skin after one magical boom.

I have a memory of this: day is a death-form with painted edges. Movement cycles above the rock. Before you doorbell, water-blast yourself a shape to wriggle around in.

The base is sensitive to youch. Touch. An avalanche blots the sun, erosion explodes light through the tongue.

Every morning at sunrise the same Mount Fuji finds a canvas and so exists no more. Algorithms float the world into. Paradise is dead hope for a zigzag trance. There is no such thing as the plateau-outside-the-self smelling rose bouquets.

Mountains dwarf the fig leaf an orgasm launched to the roadside. We no longer subtract space and time from arrival.

Erosions III

There is by sun on the other side of night, unseen. Moon is sun’s meridian spy, her blue pornography stomached in half-twilight by shady actors. A mountain is an uncompleted dream with steep sides you slick up your hands on. My.

The mountain is a world with its own weather. Windows crack only when the ingénue twirls her umbrella toward the fountain. Desire is the MORE we invent and store for the winter in shoe boxes.

Film runs out. The earth is not a building. It is paper born in the woods & hacked into rectangles children flip through. The horizon is one border. But the edge is convex per Christopher Columbus whose halo shines down from outer-space like a star you pointed to & never saw fall.

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