The Coast


Not every sentence
means the moon falling,

I manage to stammer.

In the dark, in the shadow
of the memorial,

grass glows a half-life
lighting up a room.

But are we outside—

I pinch myself, sleeping,
but I don’t remember.

There’s wind in my mind,

the last light turned off
in the gymnasium,

pelagic silence,

an echo of starlight
left on a lens, a watchman

guarding town from the dark.




Stations in Constellation


Everything you ever
came up with a name for

in avoidance

the water
too cold for swimming

rain exploding pollen, everything

you sold off quarters
of the army after us

forever, for each mistake

put off till tomorrow

the mistaken and unglued
scolded and switching
direction and rotation

for impenetrable living

all you desire

for everything you ever

I had everything when

in praise of when
I might decide

the name for making a decision

for the cold cotton you were
caught in a rainstorm in

in each of us

and vacant transmissions

light blinking on in the moment of the radio

fashioning another stand-in everything

lived in
a resistance

Following you in a separate car




Seth Landman