Poetry Issue 20


Mark Anthony Cayanan

The cause of this escape is the body

This care tends to escape into time: the Less than,
the It may be hours or even days, the I’d rather believe,
although never. Should the heart be the field
of swelling, no good skin will remain. A person so low

he is feather, is mirror over mouth, is appearance
of death. Through their jugulars froth the hot
favorable light: violet be living, dead be dirty yellow.
Sometimes the incision will cause any man

to doubt, demand alcohol and electric life.
Where the dead turned on its side is in itself this change;
before this change the soon; as soon as this action is
is tissue. Litmus blue, any given brown, perfect weather,

he gave, he gave, he did not make the twenty-four hours.
My blood was dark and thin.