Perihelion: An Online Journal of Poetry and Mayhem
The Santa Cruz Issue


From “Months” in Almanac



The sky only looks like a circle in certain paintings
and ways of interpreting geometry
from the foot of the tree of the world
                                         and grows,
and you need to ask yourself, where is this going, this electric heartbeat
trembling under a heat lamp?

Ellipses are more common though they don’t work for everything.
An egg is a good example, the way it likes itself
infinitely, the way it nests in the palm
and its weight cancels out its lightness.

Weave around yourself, long-headed thing.
Eat the night
and regurgitate the day.



Milkmonth feverfew alounge in the estuary.

The fields are oversunned and dogtowned.
Ticks nestle their heads in the herringbone of my skin,
nurse between the epidural triangles that weave a nerve net
between me and thee.

Waters are indistinct, despite all this naming.
In the end it all comes down to rain.
It all comes down
to larval pulses in a bucket outside the doorway,
to a dehydrating puddle warming under a failed assumption of metamorphosis

Be current, be evaporative preciperative
There’s no way around this up and down,
these three options:
gas, liquid, solid

There was once a joke that went like this: