Having an expanse helps, some, helps with the gargle
Where the sink absorbs your heat thus projects chill
To your thigh. The delay of thunder from lightning’s
Silent rift is almost evidence the physical leavens,
Is yeast, distends in a narrow oven, is enjoyed
Truly by guests on a precise Saturday. What
You brush your teeth for. A native disquiet to
The towel hung scrunched against yours on
The rack in the shower where they never get
Wet. Forest green, mine picks up smell


Of onion, though in theory should stay
Clean forever. Which I understand to be
Long as talking animals haunt houses, far as fables
Enjoy hallucination. A critic of your breakfast habits
May claim to have seen a virgin on a mountain, but
The roof’s business is impeding snow primarily,
Then other weather, not least the body and its urges,
Which a home’s a bell jar for. For a heretic eats


Cereal or scrambles an egg nevertheless. A heretic
Has access, too, to soft light and can adjust
Venetian blinds, seeking mood’s effuse code
Through orange gradations snaking over the couch.
Serpents tend to stay aloof forever, which I understand
As clever apostle blather. The guests come not for bread.
Your bustle pauses briefly in the early day. You wear your
Lemongrass towel which doesn’t smell of onion
But the dirt they bulb in, heavy scent the earth
Has cleansed, the earth’s clean different than man’s;
Man’s is bleach and the hot void it brings.


Logan Fry grew up in Ohio and lived on a defunct farm before migrating to Texas to pursue an MFA in poetry at the University of Texas in Austin. He is associate poetry editor of Bat City Review and founding editor of the online journal Flag & Void. Poems and reviews have appeared or are forthcoming in elimae, SOFTBLOW, Commas & Colons, and Galatea Resurrects.