Bud Smith’s Poem from the Current Issue (Volume 7 Issue 5)

Here is a poem from the current issue by Bud Smith, you can see the rest of the issue here

Bud Smith is a writer living in Washington Heights, NYC and is the author of the short story collection OR SOMETHING LIKE THAT. His work has recently appeared in The Bicycle Review, Red Fez and Full of Crow. Also, he likes beer more than soda and soda less than water. http://www.budsmithwrites.com or @bud_smith
if you’re into that kinda thing.

Cellar door

give me something
brittle little empty envelopes
coins flattened on railroad tracks
keys to cities underneath the earth
I’ll show you pilot lights
that we can relight
I’ll bring you up to the roof
point out birds on fire gliding through the night
in turn, give me clues
tracing paper traced with lemon juice
a map of the highway of your neck
leading down the front of your shirt
to somewhere with fog in the mornings
every morning.
every morning,
give me time,
I’m slow like vines growing down a hill
looking for the bottom
so I can climb a rusted fence
over the powerlines
up towards the hint of the moon
I’ll leave out directions for you
so you can circle the neighborhood
left turn after left turn after left turn after left turn
until you are right back here
where there is coffee for the both of us.

Bud was the first and only winner of the Idiom writing contest back in 2006 or so….you can see more poems by Bud and the rest of the current issue here

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