Graham Foust

By photography’s gospel, I thank you, think you back. You fail far away from me, waving at pain. A perfect song is loveless and here by your name. Things will never be the same. Are they the same yet?

Don't let me down. Don't not let the day drown. Face your waste of time. This is all. This is all you are. This is all you are allowed.

In our arteries and eyes, a hundred lightbulbs throb like drugs. The furnace: a permanent mishap. And up in the dusk, there is lucid debris— a conduit, a wire mask, a swastika of corn. Boy- and/or girl-small, we'll find some horizon, an intricate faking in which to lose way. Here we are, not speaking or dead. Here we are or dead. To what do we owe this forgetting not to kiss? Not that any given face is not afraid.

they own everything

The giant world is no damned genius with its basket of latitude, its schedule for wanting to be touched. Now, slow asleep I’m song to break in on, a strength less lost than gone. I borrow minute, hour, day, day. The waves as cruel replacements pass for crutches.