Since viewing the footage
all the birds sound like a recording
darts taste of a mycologist’s basement
where eyes sprout static tendrils
you’re trapped in an elaborate idleness
shoulders more assemblage required
hard-boiled on the floor again
you’d get the bends if you stood up straight
so take a dose and strap in
we have an assignment for you
Your temporal handler is back
on sabbatical from her desert operations
enticing lonesome pizza delivery boys
to rot in lush vegetal mirage
irradiated olives make polka dots on fine winding sheets
the target doesn’t know when its going down
so never mind the muck
of should or shouldn’t we
they need more bibles on the compound
its the same old mesmerism
same no such acronym
even dead birds roost
Experimental lenses spawn ranch fantasists
seeding calamities in the data set
there was nothing to feed the Alsatians
then fifty phantom fish kill miracles bound to Israel
strike at the vine and narratives thrum
make gains of access that don’t draw attention
dismantle something each time you cross a river
and always keep the trunk immaculate
we’ve been shuffling Jehovah’s own deck beneath the table
red with blood from the muzzle of a horse who balked
it’s just one of many ways we’re working
to make this town a friendlier place
— Isobel McHattie is a poet based in Ontario. Her work can be found on Expat, donotsubmit and The Burning Palace. She also makes comics.