Sara Deniz Akant


who can shake a way through
this chain saw clam girl show.
this claw glow clap night city
chai-mist tickle. look-less drone.

roxy set in taught-berry. seems
like we’re going to use it all up
anyway. I cannot find the sink
ground. this thicket has me lost.

sink ray baby ray
open silver light

shipless in our swimming in
our caging through our caging
in our scrape beyond our
scrape. our finger gliding. go.

away now. the happy peri
is spoiling through the
maples. the built, the burning,
the blessed, the lone.

FURTHER / FA/THER (or, the lowest form)

even infants move in order
to be cared for, in order to
gain sight of the bleeting
head of Father, his photo
inserted on the body of an
entirely different being, his
mind filled with the barren
words that say nothing here
is true – “these regions
were not meant to be stomped
around by you” – the goal – more or less –
is to blow or to be blown – to bury
the whole triangle using the very
lowest form
of molecular agitation –
to create and then destroy
a world of moving systems
– that create and then destroy


behind the familiar triangle
more active ones are burrowing.
the family itself is burrowing - the child
itself is prancing near
the low and straightened spiral

three triple-facèd people are clustered at the window.
their force a terrible interest run by irrational
speed. “my radial boar
has just fled out of me” – one is an urchin - one is
an orphan - and one is an orchid – producing an image.
he works at the bank – he sleeps at the bank. he vibrates
in his dark triple crown.