Sara Gilmore



        Owner is in


I felt them once, whole pasture seeing,
feeling them––early, a very peaceful calcification
mouth breathing––from high overpass.

Part of dense admission and we all, one by one, belonging
so violently every action grainily, eerily
in love. I felt them once in company––stretched out

through accurate traditions, not quite that as held to that, and in attendance.
Driving rain, they posited the spells,
backward against the sun slick, I felt them.

            In the reed where I appeared, some rendition fed on scraps.
            But the green lives, walks in weakness feeling:

                                                   There was a clearing and I met it,
                                                    Not all moths feed even, I came for you.



        Safe camp


By wave the display comes off, into circulation where only, only where sleeping shows how into sleep sleep builds. Distance wavers as it does now, is a long way.

Now as it does, take away, sulfur mines.
He estimated his return, the man I saw by the waves of summation, by the liquid falls.     Like unassuming: like cloud in the west.            Sit by me. If half the clouds were mine and half were yours, in sleep to count them until confines solidify sulfur.

Everything comes from somewhere else, he says. Quick in everything, the quick in liquid,
eavesdrop over land of nettles.    He brings a pack of location:        he brings the sound of his voice home to me, obvious moths drop down.

Dana, I think you’re dreaming of a project,        how the sound circulating; make me anonymous and just as the sun starts to sink down.
Bleed the contemporary and proof of alcohol for it.

It stops currency; it is bedding down for the night, it is down. 



        Railroad


How helpless    what I saw, sit down here, the room when the deer,
nothing could answer. Motion,    service, the inside of inside-most,

sunrise climbs up the round sun: none technical, please,
the green lives,
staying the same, too soon.
Staying the same, I was of. And every morning, every hardly agent: cancel one world into another.         

A hydroelectric dam     removes migrations in constant light, light that orange colors. From the artificial water: stickiness and the social display, buildings shining.

Passage over Oklahoma, dreams protruding in orange, live long enough and was it answered, regular and pushed 

vertebra, a flower in keys a
flower.








Sara Gilmore is a poet and translator. You can find her work in Ugly Duckling Presse's Second Factory, Annulet: A Journal of Poetics, and the Paris Review. Her first full-length poetry collection is forthcoming from Fonograf Editions.