CLAIM

There is always a darker colored line in my stain.
Dust attaches to my stain. A flower petal
landed on my satin, I pulled it off
and there—a light mark underneath
where the stain had been wiped away.

“You number my wanderings; put my tears into your bottle; are they not in your book?” (Psalm 56:8)

Fawn

I swallow blown-glass fruit because it shines
and you have put it out on the table
for me, rows of peaches and lemons
with skins wetter than whale eyeballs.
My tongue excretes the taste of buttercream
heavy with yolks, flush onto stabbing,
a tie-died innocence, a sunset
slipping away.

American Poetry Series, David Wojahn

American Poetry Series, Lorine Niedecker