CONJUNCTIONS: A Web Exclusive
Four Poems
Logan Burns



Correspondence Recovered

Upon the comal crop, winter, I separate what’s mine. Mimic me.

The burn barrel houses the maul, tetanus lipped in termite corner.
I turn static before the story. Lice in the eye. Lice in the rag.


                            forsake letter
                            to form field
                            geese landing


In the ink posturings of the orient, I mourn—a fetish.

Black font stitches white none.
Grey birds unstitch their form, abstracting the field, blotting the paper.

As watcher, I acquire their debt and recover the flown script.
I heel a ‘V’ over cock scrawl in fenced dirt. I edit the hectic domestics.
Missive upon terra is recompense. Repent. Record.








Locketed

felled bird
and a sentence dropped on fragmentation
in constant pose
in compost
in decompose and how to be rare in front of another
the crows, they are innocent
ungathered

window
is the locket walked into
to place the face or to pull the sheet over
is the coming of value is the ‘each year the light changes to save itself’

room
is the locket looked out of
world hung around the neck

every time a door opens
a flash, a glint off metal








Handed Down

Impossible to cut the mouth out.

Negative limb,

explain the day.

Hand me down or

hang me over.

Covet something,

or leave without

having ever

said.








Embalmed

ashamed before

your preservation from oblivion
your enduction of balmy fragrance

in transition to flue

the dutch door
privacy

I could have mourned
better

I could have stoked the furnace

as I do now
the proper bird

at my window