Someone Face Like The Sun
Was On Our Porch Last Night

Matthew Johnstone

Spray of town.

Geography's retention
in its lean.

Some shadow as
the rest of me.


Go into the morality of the


Raise up, and
lean away,

pack the body.

Evenings I remember

thinking this is winter of now.


Still the plaza,

cornered brightly until
such brightness as there have
your eyes gone to.


Wildness toward which

I advance,

I'm learning
to play the pickax.

Chased across the country,

a thing fully developed is

inadequately revealed.


The scaffolds shake in
a constant movement

of wrists.