BY AARON ANSTETT
A man rises from a conference table,
tired of acronyms and everyone
saying them, weary of phrases like
“A lot downstream hinges on this…”
and “We’re productizing cloud offerings.”
He walks through door after door
after door to the parking lot, whispering
names of countries and capitals,
then continents and body parts and colors.
From the asphalt he lifts what he guesses
a pigeon’s feather, oily, iridescent,
and thumbs its filaments, conjuring
the restless winds that fluttered them.
Aaron Anstett’s most recent collection, Insofar as Heretofore, was published last year, and new poems appear or are forthcoming in cream city review, Eleven Eleven, Handsome, Parcel, Southern Poetry Review, Zone 3, and elsewhere.