by Eric Angal
Runner
When the current pulls you under,
when it feels like—
memories of her, of
rattan patterns
and endless hens—
use your head, then.
I saw a dog running into nothing,
with great speed, all its muscles flaring,
and thought of your alacrity.
Pane Yielding
A glass bends back upon itself—
a tenon flares into a bladed edge—
here, corbels flecked with seraphim, cherubim,
and there,
lamplight in the penetralium—
above, wind is stirring in the rafters,
rain pouring.
Get that menthol shit
outta my eyes, please.
We’re here to do a job—
not sit around, drinking all the beer, rehashing
old memories—
look here.
I can’t stop thinking about
the elasticity of glass,
of this glass here specifically,
and why it bends before it shatters—
I don’t know why it happened, can only say that
something caught it just right, at its
resonance frequency,
and it opened up, like, well—
and past the shattered window, do you see it…?
Wild dogs melt into
the muted night,
wearing your father’s eyes.
****