Keith Higginbotham


Eggplant

Dust; that eyes
sorrow finds
supermarket at
skin again, winter

slipping inflicts,
monstrous
in your tractor of half-city.

Empire draws to mow,
known

lack: the teenaged
rejection its love bought,

gouged. a closet of perfect
pitch: the crowd needs
buckle.

Moonshine overalls
between entrances—

the cornfield’s soundtrack
sneaks it: I want
to midnight my arms.


Diva



Torch Song

These nets of calloused
hymns have
been limp,

shifting drooping all outline
into
door poles, bottles of us
raging
into the slick
maybe, yeah.

Ends the unadorned rope:
tubes crude pointed
enormous of blue skin-tight teeters
our combine wide
as the
rough along
water
of

thatch, the same
as in pointed
doll trees.

Doll seagull hangs out a white slope
drooping, blue-wide the
tale-points,
in under shirt all
looks are boring. History of
the along perhaps took slope, the
tight night sang

door in trees; the
white
generic bed.


Birthday Poem for Catherine M. Bennett



Away Then a Posture’s Hair

His bus sways
like
a strange eye: the book is rainy

so
fund all holy

foreboding.

Hill dust myrrh day
distant; tallest.

So time, single
black, sarongs
to your last chain. In your room you
place beleaguered down.

We’re middling, modeling
words.

Sees of tote turn
quiet; the spring smells of sequined
advisories, threadbare no.



Keith Higginbotham's work has appeared recently or is forthcoming in Cricket Online Review, experiential-experimental-literature, Mad Hatters' Review Blog, Moria, Otoliths, phantom kangaroo, and Stone Highway Review. He is the author of Carrying the Air on a Stick (The Runaway Spoon Press, 1995), Prosaic Suburban Commercial (Eratio Editions, 2010), Theme From Next Date (Ten Pages Press, 2011), and Calibration (Argotist Ebooks, 2011).
 
 
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