Eric Mohrman


Whatever was winter was 
where we went. winking, wending, winding 
among the watermarks. snowpiles on the

                              going. showing shivering lovers who suddenly
snowdrift when they 

Vice Versa

out. walk in

               circles. the sky's entirely

cloud, the color of bone; there's a mole
cricket on the picnic 
table, there are flashes of familiarity on 
the strangers' faces. Places 

               nobody has never 

been. paths of fieldstone pavers
in disrepair. unaccompanied
along memories etched in 
granite gravemarkers. greeting
               vacancy with presence 


Form Follows Function

He lifts his glass, takes a sip of 
whispers. this 
will be the year his
parents die and his washing machine gives out and all 
his toenails go 
ingrown. the yellowy 

               light is like a long

from the bulb. he shrugs 
forever. the throw 
pillows deformed from so much leaning. 

Eric Mohrman is a writer living in Orlando, Florida. He's the author of the chapbook Prospectors (Locofo Chaps, 2017), and his work has appeared in The Citron Review, One Sentence Poems, experiential-experimental-literature, M58, Moss Trill, Gone Lawn, BlazeVOX, Eunoia Review, and other journals.
previous page     contents     next page


Post a Comment

<< Home