Two Poems
Farren Stanley and Jessalyn Wakefield

Rabbit's March

The bath is an orchestra.
It is overwarm.

Marco Polo: your bubblingwounded moan, a beacon,
a clue

Don't be afraid, it's only a bridal thrush.

Smooth, the entire front of a single direction.A remembered
rain, the chill of one single drop
A remembered city.A rabbit and

the legs of her

landscape on the make. A muscletorn
in half, which is to saya muscle. There are

all modes. The feather in your hairand transit
as the bullion. Spend
it and spend it from theundone future.

It feels amazingthe way the sneeze feels like
an orgasm(on the knees)but is not an orgasm(on the knees) butis still amazing.

Sweat like neon (exposed.)Find me in Maslow's
Harmonica, or knottedin your drain. equal
breath. the thoughtful exhale.Contraction
and coppersound. Raspberry leaves

hoarding the last of the breatheable air.
Drains as valves.

Sick childrenin need. Of women.Or sugar. Or sleep.
Who can

tell the difference?

Seraphim sestina and a brittle feeling inthe knees.
The pavement has come knockingagain. I am talking
aboutchest hair.I am talking about
shriveling at thejoints.I am talking about a blanket
on fire.

Do you know what I am talking about?

Skiff off on your tortoiseshell combs into a sunset brushed greenand gold.

Later, I could tell itwas the piss of her, theburnt copper stink.

The layers taut and marbled.

Rabbit, Affianced

It is tired. It is a rancid, terminal sweat. It is policed. It is blood in
the yolk of an egg
It is a many-chambered tract-house from which no card-carrier
can escape
It is much like the many things we are actively skirting
which is to say
it is inside us already. Its status is a sopping wet lacuna. It is
a flower in the pocket
which is so wilted that to say the word wilted does not begin
to cover it
It is four brown men painting a fence white in springtime and it
is a fence
It is attempting to sort events into their names, it is things coalescing into meaning, it is
a body under
the ban of suspension. It is an economy of misrecognition. It is a dark
salt cellar
It is sweetmeats and sugar baskets. It is pink as a cue of
its betrothal
I am onto its game, the obfuscatory circles, the asking for more. I am onto
a body obsession as
Disparagement on canvas which is the same as disparagement by way of
the secular