It never gets dark here in Premonition;
no one has it out or coughs paranormal
air or confuses evaporation

with exaggeration. My lips move up
the sea as you play dice around the light of flies
while urchins eat the shapes of flowers.

I hear small noises issuing from the mythic.
You impose a vortex, spill the material
into our eyes where lights,

in cardinal numbers (while stars come up after)
might be the bright moon or a beetle
tricking ants it’s one of them.

Will you be reason? Will you begin with?
There is no model for our trouble,
the coral wracked by one wave or another.

I take up with the sea. & snails in my hands
on your skin is what happens
when the massage quickly turns to murder.

 


 

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Eric Elshtain conducts poetry workshops with hospitalized children in two Chicago area hospitals through Snow City Arts and teaches literature at Better Boys Foundation. His writing has appeared in many print and online journals, such as American Letters & Commentary, Denver Quarterly, Chicago Review, McSweeney’s, Ploughshares, Certain Circuits, TextSound, Truck, and others. The author of several books, Elshtain edits Beard of Bees Press.

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