divine magnet





Amanda Nadelberg


Rad Silence Crystal Weapon Wave Mont

I kicked the object for it to make a sound

Summer knighting the neighbors and the

astonishing tracks you decide mean no

Harm being done, call it faith in a street’s

bower or simple the revulsion of stars I could

have written a thing for Ollie on Bastille Day

But was instead thinking of all forms now

known to be the shape of our time, I tell

everyone that I’m aping and resist bearing

like a common verb in summer which goes

Like it does, onto me like confession, like a

dress I’ll decline to wear out if wonder is the

cleanest state I wear a tan jacket to find other

ways to pull into my hand what is shaking

when you sit beside me in the car I put you

in. Let there be a pause in the nursing moon

who is anything but bored. Maybe that’s the

point is something a person could have said

—we weren’t born with shoes on. To trap an

animal with a blanket as a sign of success, I wait

each night until nine for a report on the day

After tomorrow’s casting sound for whatever

it might be regardless of the people listening

which the paper says they don’t. The fridge

is still a thing (just as flowers are) and some

favor exceeds obligation and I ran to put a lid

on mars to look like a man or something I

knew before, a face its own epoch after sun

With fowl above the weather, when you think

of it what is a city? A place to wonder if his middle

name is last night? A steady basin charged with

entropy and gum? We were all the little one and

it continued to show in the light box we deigned

to speak into beyond the contrary we were of

before. I input instructions to see her fit

for truth compassions, posters in the shed

Stacked neatly like philosophies grinning

at no one, I may tally further the concept

of stars because time is forever a mammal

out walking, its head above the scene

looking the other way from infamous tulips

kamikaze in their vase. I want to go back

to the red field it was 17 years ago to wish

Roger Waters were to appear nominally in

an apartment, in the light and the waiting

Room, which is part of the story when time

is a boat that puts you in before it takes you

back out for sundries petty for a war. I

can’t stop mundering toward all parts

no one asked me to say. For each summer

I don’t go home is another stacked up

against the mind playing ball, albeit

barefoot, deep in tournament which

could culminate in your loved ones

leaving. It’s been like this since the end

Of the aughts. Balzac, I remember

how I lived with them in blue boxes

tight beside the nursery which may

have been a question of language

were you to speak again. I’ve ruined

my best white sweater in a field with my

friend. Laying down the long-running

fantasies of delight, lavender veering form into

a cordon oblivious to its uncommon spelling

of day or a game relaying fixed syllables

because some valves begin on love and

Having had the thing we do without be talk

of the very industry lighting the future

(when time is a casual dress in the wilds of

a year) months play hands accommodating

this way, or that. How since the animals

I began talking in opera. What he calls

faith may very well be the invention of a

portal to a container in the sky, look at me

don’t look at me, another stratagem to

pillow the room. Maybe I’m a maze. The

fuse catches on a shirtsleeve and I think

the configuration of self is a pervading light

Cantilevered over others in immediate cities

on some Wednesday in July and it’s then that

my friend chasses to town from the far stars

he’s summered in. Friday the scene repeats

as the house movies off. I said I had lost all

things aspecific, a woman with memory

stumbling to a corner of the city where twice

before I’d come to know its effect on me

stopping where I stayed 14 years ago, a woman

named Alice on Lombard. Is life’s emptying

out to write a poem the same fortune I face

now to convey all of it? In Petrolia

we saw zebras in a field; he offered

A ride into the next world which is

a painting of time composing lemon trees

half swung over the archetypal fence, faith

as the very sun in your eyes making them

flower to the ground its long grass and red

chair, money a plastic scene that may or

may not or may have to leave your pocket.

I got a ticket to see my parents and the

handsome waves, their busy theater recycling

the idea of show. The watch is king

if you dream, if you see the difference

between language and minute. Like a mute

siren I think of you, that is if you dream, Mindy’s

phone is ringing. I did it, I broke the scene.