Cameron Morse
Heliotrope
Head of a sun
flower, tilted saucer,
in my sunhat
silhouette, my red beard
of gravity
               aforementioned
               or shadowed
               earthward
for a place on the ground
to grovel, a place to interlace
our shoes and shower.
               Somewhere, a sunbather
               in dark glasses, I can only guess,
               dialed to silence, or static,
dissolves into laughter, ecstasy
rotating in midair. Waves
good morning.
Wayward
A word may
match this moment
in my mind, this
sagging bag
of groceries,
the eggs rolling out
of their carton.
May be the word
is “cartoon,”
because I cannot
contain,
I can only ape
myself in language
colorfully. But by
what other gauge
I may read the blood
pressure of a
langur
monkey is a mystery.
May be a word,
but not every one is
wired this way
wordly.
Bygones
Backspace, backspace,
backspace, sky
blank, uninscribed
afternoon, the palindrome
of noon after noon
after noon. Recombinant
day by day, agrees
to let bygones be bygones.
Breathe, and breathe,
and tidy up. Prepare lunch.
A parade of garbage
bags, scabs, bed
wet beddings, marches
wedding marches. Renewals:
the slew, the slaw.
Wallpaper the bedroom, the newsstand
standing beside you,
the still in which you read yourself.
Labor Day
Green morning
rinsing the canister
of our dusty vacuum
cleaner I am
footprints in water
vapor,
forgotten or—
forgetting something
important.
It’s Labor Day.
Lili sweeps out the drive
way while I walk
our sunlit children
shadowed by mosquitoes.
I am an empty canister,
forgotten memory.
Green morning
rinses through me.
Cameron Morse is Senior Reviews editor at Harbor Review and the author of eight collections of poetry. His first collection, Fall Risk, won Glass Lyre Press’s 2018 Best Book Award. His latest is The Thing Is (Briar Creek Press, 2021). He holds an MFA from the University of Kansas City—Missouri and lives in Independence, Missouri, with his wife Lili and (soon, three) children. For more information, check out his
Facebook page or
website.
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