Glass Poetry Press

Volume Two Issue Two

Michael Cherry


Evicted, the ghost has got to go somewhere, when this rattletrap rattles last. I will build a new body. It will be blue. I think it will rise two, no, ten, no, a hundred stories high. It must have a forest, a dark, dark forest, near a lake. No more windscraped and barren than the blight outside, its badlands will be peopled by monsters, but the cities will be silver and bright. In my chest, I would like a vast open sea. (Lower down, of course, volcano!) My numberless arms and legs will reach everywhere, touch everything. These eyes will see. This mouth will savor. The head will be a sun, so blazing, a sun.