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About this Poem 

“The poem is the third in a cycle of poems, titled Ships of Theseus (recently published as a chapbook by Dikembe Press), which uses the principle of tuplets in dubstep rhythms as a method of selection/composition. My language sources were the ‘highlights of prescribing information’ that accompany various SSRIs, The Physiology of Insect Senses, by V.G. Dethier (1963), and Brain Guy, a 1950s pulp detective novel by Benjamin Appel.”

—Christian Hawkey

remembering; and with the aid of; ventilation; and production; the poem

Christian Hawkey

must balance; this risk; a tablet; peak plasma; the first alphabet;
with the clinical need; finger-sized; it makes sense; the fingers;
were the first; to make sense; this risk; 31 letters; the flower-visiting species;
as opposed to; dung-feeding; the terminal phase; and the;
distribution phase; never; in my life; the relationship; logarithmic;
propriate or; propion; to make sense; this risk; and the;
as opposed to; had i imagined; that’s business; he was as soft as;
bill nodded; his neck trembling; a tablet; peak plasma; 31 letters;
throwing my body; the flower-visiting species; with the clinical need;
in front of; and with the aid of; that's business; the distribution phase;
and the; on-coming; volunteers; reflected; in the moment of; the fingers
the first alphabet; peak plasma; bill nodded; pooled analyses; in my life;
this risk; the fingers; reappropriated; his neck trembling; numb

Copyright @ 2014 by Christian Hawkey. Used with permission of the author. This poem appeared in Poem-a-Day on July 17, 2014.

Copyright @ 2014 by Christian Hawkey. Used with permission of the author. This poem appeared in Poem-a-Day on July 17, 2014.

Christian Hawkey

Christian Hawkey is the author of Ventrakl (Ugly Duckling Presse, 2010). He founded and now directs Pratt Institute’s MFA in Writing program. Hawkey lives in Brooklyn and Berlin.

by this poet

poem
We dug with our hands & hand shovels.
We dug with our spatulate feet.
& with torsos as our only circumference
we dug a maze. A maze of passageways:
Level Three the Maternity Ward, April
with knees on either side of her chin.
Some thoughts no wider than a chest.
Some thoughts no wider than a chest,
poem
At the time of his seeing a hole opened—a pocket opened—
and left a space. A string of numbers plummeted 
through it. They were cold numbers. 
They were pearls.

And though they were cold the light they cast was warm,
and though they were pearls he thought they were eyes.
They blinked. He blinked back.
Anything