Facebook

The body as text and as attachment.

Someone following my comment thread.

Someone writing on my wall.

Someone subscribing to my feed.

Grendel, Iago, etc.

So many gifted with great beauty
waste it,

and those born without it are wasted
by those who have it.

Last Year’s Clouds

Let’s say I left a precious thing on a wet stone.

A leather necklace, perhaps.

From where I stand, I would invariably see shadows of birds on leaves.

I’d dream myself right through the dramamine.

All You Are Allowed

A shadow on stage lifted in the rough hands of the wind.

It happened. It didn’t happen.

It happened to you. It happened to someone else.

I think about the inmate’s deliverance, the transport bus by night.

Your presence, small wonder

By small, I mean brief.

Like the good Magritte: half the time we exist by absence.

I mean, your body is becoming

a silk chemise, a complicated slippage.  

Sean Patrick Hill is a teacher in Louisville, Kentucky. He earned his MA in Writing from Portland State University. His poems appear or are forthcoming in Elimae, In Posse Review, Willow Springs, RealPoetik, New York Quarterly, Weave, Taiga, Copper Nickel, Juked, Apocryphal Text, Redactions, and Quarter After Eight.