Four Poems
Alek Lindus


In Olympia's
barely breathing
I could swim
like air
trailing its shadow
in deep,


Aristander seals
my face

with leonine perfection

(no seal is put upon what is empty).

the cypress scented sweat
of Orpheus.

Bad Intentions

(Ravaged by my bad intentions to Labradors).
Lip tinted

Knowing you posed those last photographs for him,
deceiving your planes
into Rembrandt's molded curves.
Fingertip memento
tedious as piano notes
embedded in a sweltering afternoon.

The Gate of Horn

I had a fever last night;

His left paw induced sleep.
Horses left their pastures to feed on snakes
I flew
just a question of

Dead in a Room with Clouds

Sloan did fills.
If the Lazarists hadn't gathered one more time
he would have been paper thin and blue.

Their dissent fashions loose
exempting the basement from silence.

Above cowed heads
Simple Simon
Interfering with neighborhood antennas.

If Sloan hadn't done fills,
I would never have killed myself
in an oily bath.