Amy KING

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Sizable Fit


Snoozing sanctum
sternum splits
tears a river in two parts
one heart apple arrow shot
second part cheek then cheek
again of the running salt

Two boys shared two
heads better than lie up,
lies up lisp
against inner mouth torpor
almost as pretty
though not twice as




The Measure of Looking


Rules of five in composition
taught stick-hands to figure
favorite fives for every finger
and we go from there up for

Rain might define its purpose
in falling without
it is standing water,
the social kiss of resistant action

Just like that paper’s seam
incision or a skirt hem drifts
unraveled morning extra strands
of hair and lives in my actual room

Asleep and noting miscellaneous
combustion like a history of reading
oleander blossoms amid sand
and parched rocks the tortoise traverses

In an economy of footlights
and intermissions,
her carapace speaks: if you’re for
watching, you must be a glad attention




The Bees of Ants


In Warsaw they live as if within
Poland, a large city nestled in valley

Ants carry weights exceeding themselves
when prompted properly

I have lived on thick bread, yogurt and wrapped wool tightly
I cinch the rafters to hold each segment against the rooftop pulling

Segments we sing and lift up work in a Warsaw factory of bitter air
and grinding bone, cogwheel steel, gravity of internal weather vapors

Engines apart and ages together, gas expounds from the honey turning
difficult and insists on replaying its bees




Edge-of-Town Fresco


In the water we wade without being made
and can’t be drawn in this dancing distance. 

My habitable dog licks lye to survive tied
to the backyard during puzzling seasons.  He tests yes
for the water-can’t-touch-floor conspiracy. 
My own daughter was merely a memo droplet. 

Reading books backwards makes for hazy pointed minutes
where the wind wisps lightly, the sun slants just right,
bees surround a bonnet:  this perfect afternoon.

Closer to central, grocery store clerk lies on the counter
in her depressed position, making guacamole from two
avocadoes and one garlic clove.  The past is aplenty, mixing.

You are often frightened into going out on Saturday
because your neighbors do and will look hard
through your windows if at home, if lights on,
if garaged car, slack-jawed and telephoned.




Does Falling Make a Sound


One day these days
will have something
in common: grazing fences
and a universal road
across America.
Skylights.  Road tripping.
A 3 a.m. rabbit misplaced
at dusk flies over cacti,
my windshield.  I am in love
with rain that never comes,
O water far too high and alone—
you belong, and you belong.
Minutes pass like days
in a cupboard, top shelf. 
Newspaper tasks go on purpose
and not enough remedy. 
I live in an open letter
box and am minutes away
from my temporary tattoo.
I also hope the neighbors
notice standing trees fall
in places no one’s ever
lived.  Easier than going, I’m
nearing more hair than this
crossword puzzle lets on.





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