Online Exclusive

Three Poems
Bliss Rate
In the language of carbon wealth I sang myself into shape. May the pieces fall in accordance with natural law, I thought, and the world will slide into place. Complicity was as capital in the vernacular of the times, so my counsel sold to blight-ridden conifers desperate to restart life. Austral zones turned to saunas as the moon foamed overhead—I knew it would give me a smile if it dared. Abluting nightly with the water of flooded systems. Playing adulation in a recursive loop. My influence darkened the atmosphere. It breathed, I breathed back.


Room Time
I didn’t go back for the dream despite what I promised for the promise, too, was part of the dream. Cast off its axis, a room must not be let loose to roam a house, muck its interior wilderness. Each room is laid down inside the previous until the house is a nest of contained and containing rooms.  Placed inside this nest  it  is  difficult  to  navigate the
                                                                                      rooms the subject invariably picks up the phone but this phone is inside of my body which is not a place I want to speak to it just asks foolish questions about going back for the dream through the digital tick-grass of its quantitative field once
I was a different person. Two friends and I would get spatially together and hold what we then called Room Time. This was a spectacle of friendship marked in celestial bodies by a slow nova of possibility. Let me be clear: a possible room can exist inside an impossible one for a while. But then stellar reset occurs and the possible drops out of the room.


Stop trying so hard to make it happen

I was grave at a gathering of friends, hotly tethered to figures of unbalance. The whole landscape, I misspoke, hard breathing, caught in a bad word. I knew I had something to stop but no one was telling me how. Speech kept happening in another direction—I watched it thread half-beautifully around what may have been my location or someone else’s or not anyone’s, location with eyes for itself only. More logical bad news I can witness, be vessel for. I wanted love to come from a place of glacial resignation and just be happy for that even happening. I was embarrassed for my subjectivity—it kept vamping, being moot.                                           

Peter Myers recent poems have been featured in The Capilano ReviewYalobusha ReviewDatableedVestiges, and Boston Review. He has an MFA in Poetry from the Iowa Writers Workshop.