This glacis where is leavened frore by frore

and beauty memento mori; to wake

and dream of sleep from adamantine noon

to keloid vesp when not at abattoir

(these factories like life fulfill clichés);

the killall’s ken; the procinct’s penury;

the manse so seen beyond the rye approached

but never entered./  Noses nuchal neath

her porch by spiders traipsed to Az said Bel,

Just stop.  Be still.  Be still.  We’re lucky to

feel them.  One day I’ll smell of ozone; you

too thin to matter.  Ghosts with blood.  No one

will ever touch us.  No.  Except for blood.

So few but us don’t want another’s blood.


Joseph Harms is the author of the novels Baal and Cant.  His fiction and poetry have appeared in Boulevard, The Alaskan Quarterly Review, IthacaLit, Out of Our, Poydras Review, Red Ochre Press, Lines+Stars, Bad Idea, SPECS, Mad Hatters’ Review, The American Dissident, Mandala Journal, Niche, Wilderness House Literary Review, Otis Nebula, The Olive Tree Review and, among others, Poetry Pacific. He is currently seeking a publisher for his sonnet series Bel.