The mowing drones the heat
is just about enough to rust
if you spell it reluctantly as
your handwriting slams into
amnesia. August half passes
in a slow procession of cobwebs
whose negligence unravels in
your hands like dust. The results
are exhausting. And that was
the music of the countryside
last year. Slippery as the first
pills of night or clouds. There
was no procès verbal.
JS Venit
JS Venit was born in New York and emigrated to Brussels in 1980 where he lives and works. His poems have been published in The Partisan Review, The American Poetry Review, and Literary Imagination.
Also by JS Venit (see all)
- Ashes - February 23, 2021
- Notes to Self - June 10, 2019
- Spoken English - June 25, 2018
