We Gloom and it is Our Gloom

O, whisker gutters, thigmophilic,
rip ripe bags to maggoty marrow,

rake claws through hide, clamping jugular,
nose bitch in heat, tail lifted,

lap puddles’ cobbled flare,
streetlights’ blurred constellation,

patter bebop through struts and rafters,
solo, scat, scored, free,

let rain run rivulets about dumpsters,
inside, beneath, almost dry,

sleep where dropped, rise where fallen,
ever conjure this slink of days.

***

Devon Balwit is a poet and educator from Portland, Oregon. She has a chapbook, Forms Most Marvelous, forthcoming from dancing girl press (summer 2017). Her recent poems have appeared in numerous print/on-line journals, among them: Oyez, Red Paint Hill, The Ekphrastic Review, Serving House Journal, The Journal of Applied Poetics, Emerge Literary Journal, Timberline Review, The Prick of the Spindle, and Permafrost.

Read ‘A Particle, Perhaps, Spinning’ also by Devon Balwit here.

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