Typo Magazine — Issue Two

The above is leaf-math,
a high
block of cottonwood.

I am for volume.
I am for tubes
in and out of the sick.

If heaven were only
where only
you could hurt you

I would touch its dead
and broadcast
their entire range of breakage.

I would breathe to within
a skin’s-width
of my sleep.

I would make a small nimbus there,
a clear heart
for moths to toss against.

Fake and un-ancient,
inexact as hands,
I would move as if by choice into my life.

Graham Foust wrote As in Every Deafness and Leave the Room to Itself. He lives in Iowa and teaches at Drake University. He once sold Carol Burnett a pair of shoes.

Typo — Issue Two