"Here comes the perfect pitch-
it's white, it falls to the glove,
showing its stitches."

More Perihelion:

Issue7: Passages

Issue6: No More Tears

BobSward's Writer's Friendship Series




A quick list to poets featured in this issue:

Valarie Duff

Nick Flynn

Jim Behrle

Fred Marchant

Jacob Strautmann

Vera Kroms

Henry Israeli

Daniel Gutstein

Joyelle McSweeney

David Dodd Lee

Daniel Bosch

Michael Perrow

Luljeta Lleshanaku

Miklós Radnóti

Nikolai Baitov

Drago Stambuk

Zafer Senocak

Joyelle McSweeney

Developed Nation

Is this how a god returns from victory?

This is america. The boy soprano
into the doughnut-world.
Fresh from the fish-mold.
Clattering out across the snow
to buy a paperknife,
clutching a flier...

A test in harmonies.
Here comes the perfect pitch-
it's white, it falls to the glove,
showing its stitches. Here comes
the hot-front, stitched with flags

O beautiful he produceth
language from everyplace
on his body, the room
where the heatcloud lifts to the ceiling...

the subcommander crouched in the stalkbed breathing
into his lily-season


Toy Bed

The bobcat poses in a tripod of rifles.
The crown of the emperor penguin slips down halfway
over his eyes. Light shades down bluely from the ice cliff

to the ice. Now this
is a salt marsh, but this can't have salt
or glass. The black wool beret is sodden and itches
and pushes my wet bangs down into my eyes
in little points. The field is flooded, floodened.
This has lost

its ice and good light. I slipped into the channel.
my thin nylon jacket soaked through right away.
Mud pouched in snaky curls inside it. I stood up.
Is there still time to walk

out, pitch a stick and read the current, fold back
the green felt cap, poke a feather through, remove
myself to higher ground? Inside the dry house, thinking.
What does the deer do, now, in the woods? He wears

a too-huge stylized rack. It pulls his head back
black-lipped to the sky, or pulls his head down
and he must graze and brood. It pulls
his lips and makes him smile. It closes his eyes.