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So mash the glance
	I came to cringe at the miniature eggs rolling upon the tiniest spoon— edge, swift, edge— purple & church floor. I had business on that side of town. I did wish myself a windy braid and a basket of cut throat, I admit— just to find the tell-quail dusting graves. I heard of the trees typewritering before & those nymph-nosed little bitches who’d try to steal the weather.
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Nothing puts the fun back in funeral
	This kerchief for your leak, this secret pony for your haul. My all of time in a breath. Lass sighing under the elm. It is no use -------------------- stringing -------------------- the ship across a ribbon across a meadow, the damn heart dripping the path bathtub-yellow. I am still clamoring to all this corpsey tune. All of this. There are four, there are three, there are four. The bad weather moves this way, kin,
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OLIVIA CRONK's recent work has appeared or is forthcoming in Action, Yes; h-ngm-n; Jubilat; and Parcel. She reviews poetry for Bookslut and teaches Composition, Creative Writing, and Literature at Oakton Community College and Composition at Northeastern Illinois University. She lives in Chicago.

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