The Simple of If You Only is This

Today is the poem and it’s a hard one
The sky fills wicked its pale mannequin
We pull it up over our faces cover our heads
The island is weeping and blank the stone
under all of your clothes here you are

Cold buries the clock so many sleeping giants
This is a house, that is a sorrow
This is a snow coal-white a vortex
and a flying thing And this is why
he loves it, why he holds it so tight


Twilight tugs the dewdrops into ice and the cars
burrrow “Take the winter in your mouth”
He is talking to us both now “Press its teeth
against your teeth. For you are a flying thing
my loves, and will be gone soon enough”

Mordy makes for to exercise
and it just does. A body what it
machine. Where it creak he sluck
the studs. Tell me do you visit lately?
Your body over wine? Love eyes itself
in the machine lovely. His muscles
loose like a gum. Everything hum.
What gumbles haply in the blood.
His burrows body. His skin-deep skin.

Mordy Touches the Secret

Mordy tongues the keyhole with his thumb. Give
a little shake the slip tumblers. Knocks on the knob
to hear it. He hears it. Littlebell. Twist of fingernail.
Mordy clears the third blockade. Candle all out
the wax. The hooded doorframe dims away.

— Eric Raanan Fischman

Eric Raanan Fischman is an escaped New Yorker and Naropa graduate, co-founder 
of the student-run publication
Semicolon, Boulder poetry calendar moderator and his
first book, published by Lunamopolis, will be available shortly.