Big drums. The air’s not singing. Even me Coming out of aught. I won’t invite. Red flower goop left her right cabbage green. From where I am My attentions Straight with you. Have you me? I thought whole taken for parts. Head home. Right about now curtains. Down on you. Wade In and kept hip if seen. You stand up On low when you can. Of me Who isn’t curled. Always the look And then, Look, up Lasts for no more a buzz. Will I leave With you. Over my shoulder She heard &&&&&&&& Cabbage leaves for me
fowl like myself & saw Aught Above. Over us in some falling I was small & called down to Aught. She had a er all & the call, she was not then yet.
I sit in front of the strum. I mostly occupy.
Still be I can’t wait to be sung back to possible. Her with my mind looks into big drums.
Singly Watch The Smoke Bloat The Pear In Graying Phases.
Pull off our feet. The ground like taste. Little jugs. She touches with me. We eat together to gather Yellow Candles. I blow. She sifts away from rock. Ick. A girl is filling. Call it to hip. Position. Moon, I may go in the size of your eye socket.
Magenta In Bits, A Flower From The Ceiling Set
My eyes broad day light to fountain geese, making me this place. From the ceiling, my eyes are not up there. Broad day light is covered with us to fountain. Geese form into what else Exhausted, Wanting to walk its surface, glimmer its common Outward. Said beneath each beam, Two Dales cuss flower markets: swerves out of blue thighs. Their scene came here
without rest, geese tails in the ground flower. There, shape has a group soft and heavy. Pull. She wraps her arm around the plant
to complement her mouth.
-- Catherine Blauvelt is a 2012 graduate of the Iowa Writers’ Workshop. In 2013 she won the “Discovery”/ Boston ReviewPoetry Contest. Her poems have previously appeared in or are forthcoming in Fifth Wednesday Journal, Boston Reviewand The Iowa Review, among others. She currently works for the Iowa Youth Writing Project and teaches at the University of Iowa.