on the pitch-tinged
glass-eyed horizon
like oil out a rusty pot
possible poems patter and steam into unreachable excess
it is suddenly possible that I stand
for nothing. That I am a wide electric
door for ideas to enter, stare blindly then leave
the wiser will-o-wisps agitate
other fields, where the saxifrages blossom
a winding vine with steel-thistles
any winter moon, or obsidian gland is preferable
any moon
to eternal dusk
any tree-lined street made tattered or of cackling orchids
pickled in cum-white plastics meaning death, or disembowelment
they bear any torture so long as it’s witnessed
but not my eyes help me not mine.
— Fran Kursztejn (she/her) is a writer and filmmaker based in the Carolinas. Her work has been published in PROMETHEAN Magazine, DoNotSubmit!, The Gorko Gazette and Greyhound Journal.