Kelsey Bowe

The World Applies Pressure

the world cracks its bones.
holds breath.
once, prehistoric incisors made love to manocots.
then, stiltstones rolled around in the gullet
of the landscape,
their clastic roots cuts by leaving.
Less than the afterthought of inhilation.
Clay collects color
puts to sleep at the quivering intersection
of prairie grass and wind.
Lowland mounds give tone to fallen
acidic grays.
Forgotten weight grinds right-handed patters
in the soil.
Now, nestled westward, elevated,
packed in intravenous sorrow, waiting
For featherd glass, ok
prongs to orbit ok
Some paper bird to hold down
Waiting to contain
What was once wrapped in Lifelines,
For eyes made hands, turned to eyes.