Esther Greenleaf Murer



Sleetfellows stride athwart the sundering sound
agog with thorns of delight.
Ignominious doodads

flap on the languorous lengths of history’s washline
where cleverclogs outflank quizlings
and skipjacks rampage under the dunkling drain.

This, saith the spoonbill, is how
the world abides: not without bangs
but as a dumpster.

Citizen revolt

No, I will NOT report for jury duty
in Nizhny Novosibirsk. The moon
is much too square, and I left my parsnips
in the sleeve of my Monday pyjamas.

You think I can write “Hieronymous Point”
every time something goes wrong?
I have already filed the dismembership forms
down to the quick and the dead. Moreover,

I’ve got a court order saying that each time
you send me another animadvertisement,
you must pay the state of Tennessee
$200 postage and processing fee.

Esther Greenleaf Murer, an octogenarian relic of the twentieth century, lives in Philadelphia. She has been featured poet in The Centrifugal Eye and KIN, and published her first collection, Unglobed Fruit, in 2011.

Issue 1.5 Table of Contents