Online Exclusive

Four Poems
A Way to Wed No Toward

A coo is forming a dove from the open breast of zero: a sound, a rivulet, a note to wed no toward. Something along the lines of the question “glass?” is filling an empty drinking glass with the question that glass is. That this dove is a question of a bird, glossed, empty glassed, unseen, save by an utterance or the utter absence of. That I approach this evergreen, regardless, wherefrom the voice of dove first emerged is a “zeroing in on” hovering like a stream of foreign language from this evergreen, unseen. That this voice is the italic of the tree’s own vertigo, every vinho verde of its snow-laced foliage ajar. Something along the lines of an unseen dove overdubs an open “zeroing out of.” This is the absence that becomes the abscess of an opening. Here I am thinking, wryly, of an intestinal opening, awry: a sound, a rivulet, a note to wed no toward the faith that makes a line a curve, a curve a zero, and a zero nevertheless a zero on the fringe of a scoliosis of dove. 

“Or a …” Is a Flight Away from Utter Absence

Wanting to say “the sound of this dove’s coo is synonymous with the cylindrical tusk of its neck” is equivalent to the refusal of oil & water to mix; nothing of this persuasion twists an esophagus into a balloon animal in the way of a phoenix, does it? The gist is that I’m curving the lines & sewing the last of its wings into a warp of je ne sais quoi how playing music into the awe of a mirror boils a mirror to oil. All the vibrato dove is I’ve raked across a table like a mess of hail. Messiah is the look-alike that happens, which of itself is “some sort of a bird,” a winging the valley of the shadow of déjà-vu. What’s the stutter of “or a …” without the flutter of wings, a flap of je ne sais quoi? A thought-feather soldered to the mirage of a sewing machine? A typing “some sort of bird,” a note to wed no toward as though a stroke of Wite-Out on the most exquisite text? 

Even “Or a …” Has Its Origins

I am always most astonished by what of magnetry can never be soldered & why. A crushed dove, a zero, a coo floating in the evergreens to collide with any taxi to a quasi-constellation. One thing I don’t think I’ll ever forget is the first time I read André Breton describe his wife’s waist so beautifully as the shape of an otter, hourglassed between the perfectly aligned teeth of a lion. The sound of this is what thinking, postdated like his love was: a swarm of forysthia in the awe of yelling odd. Like this dove-coo in an evergreen is; like this suddenly a dove is; like a déjà-vu, a vortex of wings of je ne sais quoi, a wind from which mixes oil & water into a cocktail as logarithmically the spiral of a nautilus shell the axis of zero & missed concentric circles. What chaos is a dove to be the opposite of concentric. I’m throwing out all my old etiquette. That thought that dangles haphazardly from a tooth beginning as an “or a …” is now an aura, suddenly aurora borealis when we speak. 

A Way to Project Away To

Logarithmic spiral over & over dove is over & over a zero through the carousel of déjà-vu. The sun Ferris-wheeling overhead like the symbol for degree rising in Fahrenheit is the utter oil of sun against an oceanic sky. A snow-white dove against the absent backdrop of a snowed-down field is only a degree of dove to a certain degree. This is an accurate depiction of memory: the spores of asymmetrical rhizomes combing through the intestinal labyrinth of magnetry. Or how a holograph works: to project away to, to wed no toward from an “or a …” to a wing of a nautilus shell in the vertigo of sky from. To unwinding the rhythm of a flight of film of oil on water from. To the peeling back the sky from. To what “I saw was” unwinding, from a stutter of a collision into “is a was.”  

Jake Syersak is an MFA candidate at Florida Atlantic University. His work has most recently appeared or is forthcoming in Gone Lawn, Front Porch, Housefire, Kill Author, and Word Riot.