Dawn Pendergast





o right
where you are,

on the savannah or
behind a clobbering

of books. Or pussy-
footing a slick heap


of wet azeleas, a bee-
tle in your midst


Go Do It


  Get these grapes and some hair. Adorning you, go dream unto my little self.
  Underneath my back, go white and whence. The grass, the grass. Go do the thing with
  your lime tree.  Sling shot across the windows blind, be late, pop. Born like a dog beside
  a road, the geese rise, their white something. Go up and up in the dim blue shade your
  eyes and go. Letters away instantly. Letters twist foil. Go do the old papers. The thinner
  and golder paper brackets. Briskly; no cake, no stars, go flat what I touch for. What my
  figure in the gold shooting outing goes, a barge in the night, the blue belt you go thru
  and up and on. 



The Devil


Mornings I drive to the ocean just to look.

I sign over the sea, the bright flares of birds. Dogs go
gnawing their legs in and out of the sea.
They are also none against the light scaling
the grey sea and I put my face down to view.

Part of the weeds move and some grass
falls over. A few trees take place and green appears.

I can’t talk.
The boats are honking to and fro for no reason
I can see. To honk all day, like flies, and be done.




Dawn Pendergast's writing can be found at What Birds Give Up (www.whatbirdsgiveup.com)



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