Brian Foley
Plugs
There is a traffic
light hanging
in Mass
no one has ever been through,
that has never turned red
on itself
Sometimes I see
streetlights caramel
like sadness
to the identities
under. Then
the night won’t rise.
No stars to turn from
bright, tideless, housefire
& just a voice burns
from an obsolete stem
Plugs
There is a traffic
light hanging
in Mass
no one has ever been through,
that has never turned red
on itself
Sometimes I see
streetlights caramel
like sadness
to the identities
under. Then
the night won’t rise.
No stars to turn from
bright, tideless, housefire
& just a voice burns
from an obsolete stem
The Bathers
Intensely the sky!
The view as rubbed on my fingers.
The light is not on it.
Spring lakes visit.
Italics are outside!
Yellow
hard on social waters!
Androgynous yellow
communes you welcome
when made aloof by the whole
oarlock’d earth.
How hurried you redress in egg from a failure.
Why be great?
The soul is disgusting.
Do not imitate it!
Intensely the sky!
The view as rubbed on my fingers.
The light is not on it.
Spring lakes visit.
Italics are outside!
Yellow
hard on social waters!
Androgynous yellow
communes you welcome
when made aloof by the whole
oarlock’d earth.
How hurried you redress in egg from a failure.
Why be great?
The soul is disgusting.
Do not imitate it!
Brian Foley is the author of The Constitution (Black Ocean,2014) and a forthcoming chapbook, TOTEM (Fact-Simile Editions, 2014). Recent work has appeared in The Fanzine, Everyday Genius, Fou and The Paris American. He does his work in Western Massachusetts.
