It's either raining or I'm reading from a script or no good deed goes unpunished or my reflection's swinging at me as I'm badly matched. Potential energy is everywhere. There's not one life to pass before me but my own. Should I but love the poet, hate the poem, or let the living rehabilitate their living ere they call me home, I may correctly self-assess. The lip I pick to kiss the fish with is itself a fish and in my medium I undulate with open eyes. I undulate with open eyes. I don't remember having fulfilled social obligations. Of eight corners, none are painted vacant. Having talked to God they're happy for a time and suddenly the earth's all form and void. The morning glories fade to pink. I passed the exit as I thought it said EXCITE and had a headache or had planned to laugh at you and wash my hair. As surely to my home in an abandoned missile silo food and water will be brought to me I will know bliss.
In a past century Heikki Huotari attended a one-room school and spent summers on a forest-fire lookout tower. He's a retired math professor and has won three poetry chapbook prizes. This is his fourth collection.
See two of his poems previously published in issue 4.4 and 4.4
"Cutting Corners" formerly appeared in AGON Journal.