Sam Langer


Where the jawed church breathes up the interest
River bodice, light conquers itself pale in swimming
Field, in feather.
The theme hurts the tears that recur.
Spring strikes between pale wings. Warm.

She looks up the strikes on his where
I look at him, and then at river
Redundant. A field
Plays us across warm baths, the
Ripples of foreigners leading back to spring.


All my herons are wet
All my hearing aids are dry.
A long suck on Gorbachev’s
disembodied birthmark and the afternoon pokes in
to time out the poplars.
High Brunswick says
whatever it likes.
This is the only kind of freedom
to arrive in the mail.

Sam Langer was born in February 1983 and then finished a B.A. in May 2007. Now he works casually, for Spotless Services at the Alfred Hospital in Melbourne (Australia). His poems have appeared in Cordite, The Age (Melbourne), Otoliths, Overland, Arena, The Sun Herald (Sydney) and 543, a free poetry magazine he edits and publishes irregularly.
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Blogger Raymond Farr said...

These are fabulous. Such verve and ingenuity. Please submit to Blue & Yellow Dog (warholaray1@embarqmail.com)

12:06 AM  

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