Poetry
Failed Passwords
by Thomas Cook
First Turned Away at the Door:
I carried away my own peculiar recognition and burned down the house. Persuaded by the sanity of it, as though this instant could never exist in the cycle of eternity or out of context, there seemed to be a hitch somewhere, a counterpane of antique ears. The blinds barely parted, with no desire.
Treehouse:
A throng too large for an arbor leaves me speechless at breaktime. Poor memories. Come out as an autotroph and float breakfast-like in the western sky in a tireswing. The world avenges itself in the qualities of the ineluctable grid of mere morning and I am stifled at the depths of the immense weariness we feel from climbing the rope.
Guest of Honor:
I was forced to take the head of the table and then struck off on an urgent errand to entice a storm. Like making a path for a fellow traveler in a tiny colored world, I had to purify the gesture. In the darkest sense of advancement, interconnecting puddles of flesh compose my story and tilt the world.
Fountain of Youth:
Race over the next twenty-one years to more jam and butter. I had an idea of them, though this one is whiter and more filled with haste. The lie required us to live here under another name, more canon ball than baby piano, radiating against unrecognizable garden spines and cold knowledge. Blunt yourself against these stones so you remember the place you found them.