Two Poems by Daniel D’Angelo

Eidolon at Autumn

Like dead
and still seen in
the back yard of water.
Extra syrups:
more years forced
out of a sycamore
for effect I’m like
the rest you get
at the end. Water
thrown in your face.
Lightbulbed
in place. Well, water.
Ourselves
felt better
and more haunted.

Was: all that I saw
weathery, barking
brush. I get all the ideas
together: I hear
this time: you
sound like reheating liquid
in a microwave: plastic
bulging declining
favorable mass. You,
too, scatter and stay really gone.
Garbage age of hide and hear.

For me and silence:
a planet for the
murder talker.
Put the words away,
turn them in,
fill the whole house.
Lawn full of hair
drawing out the ground:
source just come as you are:
falling apart, one stroke back:
a bird called on the house phone.

 

Eidolon at the End

I wouldn’t go. The sensation
I completely lost was for your
beachy self. Teeth mushed out
by more, bigger types of teeth.
Slab of mirror can’t get enough of itself.
Trying out for terror: I was cut
by comfort. Come back when
it’s done being the nineties outside.
In the decade I had to qualify:
a ghost with knuckles that work.

Your eyes are fish
pets. The second
it’s a tactile illness
hiding in the zone’s
undergrasses, growth erodes
the dental impressions.
You left a ton of pushups on the floor.

A pair of kids yelling apart
the sycamore. Stunning
the lake with a grave nudity:
insides not tucked in
to warm sheets of earth.
Leaf strafes from a branch
into my mouth. I’m starving for
a rare scarf of road
leading to a town zone. I’m tucked
into being by a shadow matter. Like a
cliff face: good shadow draper.

The mirror wounds all right.
Less monstrous. The shade person lights
up windows, less remarkable
hiding places. The contents,
once a day, are all done.
To suffer as a river does
and still have organs to look after
and grow more of.

***

Daniel D’Angelo’s poetry has appeared in The Collagist, NOÖ Journal, H_NGM_N, Jellyfish, and Phantom Limb, among others. He is former editor for Phoebe. He’s from eastern Iowa and lives in northern Virginia.

Photo credit: FaFulanita, morguefile.com

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1 Comment

  1. This spills out mesmerizing as the lake described, not tucked in. I find the rhythm, the punctuation makes me uneasy like the best 60s jazz recordings. Strangely alluring, disturbing and real.

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