Things I Should Apologize For Spell

Speaking to a smudge that once belonged to Marcus Aurelius.
Nazi-actors, cinematic hair, bituminous tea, transparent teeth.
My birthplace, a wheelbarrow, my birthplace, a pencil, it follows.

Stray words slipping from a vague mouth at the airport: Stay afloat.
Cheap, abundant cirrus clouds from Abilene, afraid of the samba.
The trout in each part of the machine, machine in each part of the trout.

The river before it was a river, coiling inside a scientist’s belly.
Ornate chair, mushroom spores, diary cleansed by rusty scissors.
Landfill music and rat music consuming one another in the snow.

Suit made with rippling seaweed—dilating, contracting—it follows.
In the background, war radio saying, Iron finger found on the moon.
Rhizomatic architecture, triangular heart, synaptical potatoes.

Lives inside a lion I can’t remember—Sigmund Freud, falconry, foam.
The river before it was a river, toiling inside a patent attorney’s belly.
War radio in the background saying, Iron finger found on the moon.





John Bradley’s most recent book is Dear Morpheus, The Glue That Is You (Dos Madres). He is the editor of And Blue Will Rise Over Yellow: An International Poetry Anthology for Ukraine (Kallisto Gaia Press). A frequent reviewer for Rain Taxi, he is currently a poetry editor for Cider Press Review.

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