Owen Bullock






you negotiate lips

to open


earth knits itself

in the next possibility

paused at a wheel


in summary time

cones are more common

than spheres


you leave out a page



alleyways have mercy

on the human condition


a child stares

perhaps noticing

a pigeon feather


what is there

except the bass on the street

men and women

causeways to oblivions


children are ready to be

told what to do for the day

they owe each other

someone owes them


sights are digital

the night is gone

wheels a revolution

you can’t escape





another hope

lurks at the gallery

a homeless man

in a cardboard box

they lodged him there

begging for money




rainbows insulated

in each dimension


materials condensed

onto the floor

pattern worked out


walls bulging flat

are they walls?


the ceiling sealing

windows fallen

into the out


the door opened one time

too many

without a knock


carpets lifted

un-laid, over-laid


the room suspended

in a vacuum


you are

in here





when balanced

by injunctions

beleaguered by epistemé

known by name


when carved in oak

made to plastic some trees


when tread by feel

to vintage


given a bag




into the hot

re-melting asphalt


piled loosely

in the morning

from the word before


when it’s fingered like a book

marked as study


when it’s empty

like the glass beside the bed


reduced to change

under the mattress


it might be

acceptable to you