I watched a man eat a dove. It meant nothing. Somewhere
he is sleeping and will soon fossilize like all the children of God. I want to rise
from that meridian completely outraged. My face brightens and declines continuously.
Everything I’ve read has made me rich and disgusting with joy.
The raptors where we play land and defecate on the cross.
Nothing in the world with purpose, nothing symbolic.
No devotion to this kingdom— lake ice to bleed on.
I run, a beggar in a golden circle, trying a new music with my hands.
The cosmic hole inside each animal is filling with snow.
For The New Earth
Rain on the weapons. Rain for the open mouths, a new song dropping debt in the body.
Today, shadows. Instructions for failure. A lover beginning to walk through the wall.
God damn the shotgun body. Face the moon flinching over the drowned.
Burned barn in the center and I hate my mistakes. I speak to a sapling, faithlessness, the hand that put my dog to rest.
I began to live when a spider crawled through the bricks of my dream house.
Skyler Osborne was born in the Midwest. He received an MFA from the Michener Center for Writers in Austin, TX. His work has recently appeared in Best New Poets, The Colorado Review, Narrative, Ninth Letter, Salt Hill, and elsewhere.