Christopher Martin

                    after marcella durand

The airport lays burning in a diary
of sculpted seawater. The headlands,

facing each other with a particular ruby
hued observation, fall behind the night

in shards of rock and tendon, awash
in hallucinatory warmth and the dislocated

green of vaguely numbered streets.
Visitors lose you across the southern

mist, pursuing only an icy wave of paint.
They navigate gentle circumferences

of cryptography with an oblong sense
of definition growing minute in their palms,

like a ticket in the underwater bedrock, its slippage
dictated by a small lattice of artificial runways.

All this is spread out in a methodology
of wishfulness, rays of vague space

lounging in the coastal distance. They're lit
by invisible spires of ice, a conduit placed

beneath a mysterious, extraordinary kind of metal
ship, friendly in its size, covered by generous

diagrams of slow oval fish. It's time
for exact speaking among the lucid

houses of trance. Time for the weather
to equal ourselves, spiraling through light

constrained basements, rooting its bloom
among the indefinite hours of fruit.

If we can bear such elliptic halving, time
to grow old and young both, bearing

a final circus, built in the center
of our furious snow-driven eyes.

Chris Martin is the swashbuckling poetry editor of Puppy Flowers ( and is ephemerally situated in St. Paul, MN. He will soon live in Brooklyn with his sister and near a girl he is in love with. He enjoys expired foodstuffs, the immaculately wistful Bob Seger, and propogating brain splode in its sundry forms. His work can also be found or is forthcoming in Lungfull!, Swerve, Old Gold, and Accurate Key.