Where you were born
Like a boy putting olives on his father’s fingers,
Finance is an ocean
A pristine and beardless tide.
I recognize nothing it washes in,
Though together, America
We form its moon
And Carlos, I met you once – you rang me up for mayo, the streetlights
Just on, false as York Street’s lilacs.
If God is here, he is the printer alone, copying out a long text
In an empty room.
Prophets, for you God spat out a tooth,
And the whitest of birds assembled in the dark
Of his mouth to replace it –
That was what was called
‘Having it good’, once -
FACTS are sonorous but among the facts there is a murmuring
Shot outside Victorville, California. Super8.
From Bern Porter’s ‘Found Poems’
Submarines blot out the ocean. They drive on to Rome
Alone, negating the whale.
A vault of men
Asleep periscopes up
In their bunks, a grotto –
The mission, enormous, fits in each of them whole -
Like a pit in the fruit, like society in the soul.
Each torso is a motto,
the same motto, incorruptible:
all corruption is included in its phrase.
So flutter on, poplar: wobble on, tabled plums.
“Nature is the same as Rome – nature is the same as Rome.”
Timmy Straw is a writer and musician from Oregon. Editions Plane published her first chapbook, To Water, Everything is a Swimmer, and her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Spork, Tin House, Weekday & Volta. She’s composed music for film and ballet, put out the album State Parks, and is currently working on a second. She also studies Russian at Reed College.