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About this poet

Eric Baus is the author of The Tranquilized Tongue (City Lights, 2014). He teaches at Regis University and lives in Denver, Colorado.

The sisters of the broken candle

Eric Baus
covered every window in the house with x-rays of my bandaged eye.

"working backwards from the sky" says she follows every fissure until it's
time for the stiches to come out. When something falls you should pick it
up.

"spilled sand and lamplight" has been my sister for a while now.

They say we are slivered glass. Fluttered numbers and milk. Flickers
sutured in skin.

They tried to convince me that half the word filament is night. Every
rattled out lightbulb means a brother's pillow is burning.

We all watch the clock. Eyes running out of aluminum. 

From The To Sound by Eric Baus, published by Verse Press. Copyright © 2004 by Eric Baus. Reprinted by permission of Verse Press. All rights reserved.

Eric Baus

Eric Baus is the author of The Tranquilized Tongue (City Lights, 2014). He teaches at Regis University and lives in Denver, Colorado.

by this poet

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The horse's pain never imagines a house beyond the storm. Its mirrored breath forms a force that dies without noise. The ice in a sickened room is not salt. Its perfume pours a rain that deletes the tacit skin.

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Venom erupted from the trees when the vital system of the brook reset its serum stem. Can suspended snakes compose a more careless music? Do two detached wings count as an exoskeletal gesture? A hiss is the sound the sky would make if these leaves revived their flight.