The Number 36 on Fire

the back of my head a dollhouse attic
I dream the number 36 on fire

before there was language
there was water

can’t a woman have a secret?

the seams the straight lines
the wicker weaves around

ash makes ink for me to write
the two kinds of poetry

To the Muse

speak oh Muse of
Martian temples
sourced from the world’s frontier

fwiw I am complicit in this tangle

a drum talks when beaten
a vessel silts when poured

the robes of cotton
you've carried out 
for generations 
dip beneath the surface

tension gliding bubbles to the air

there are discrepancies
in the fences

count the ladder rings
up to heaven

germs are
microscopic angels 
there

might as well look
below the batter

gorded but still leaf-like
precision counts my token calm

a calf towards the morning

Refracted Coherence

limp dick trawlers on the vine
torn open like a ketchup packet

time collapsing over hills
a muzzling rain

peace the bird’s eye view
lipstain on the echo

ruby throated
I languish the daze

hell licks its hounds
a little more lemon  





Clare Kelly is the founding editor of Hesse Press. She is the author of Future Ruins We Can Visit Now (2014) and the forthcoming The Number Thirty-Six On Fire. She lives near Los Angeles, with her lovely children.

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