Patrick Redmond


I drink ghost pipe for dream.
I say lovely too much, & it means nothing.
Outside is lovely.
The purpled sun is lovely
in its polluted backdrop
The shadows of men dangling from the roof
will be galley-ed
for the gradients of overlayed sun & shadow—
                                                                               it’s lovely.

I love a woman who loves a man with a sinus infection.
For my allergens
we fuck in the duck blind
overlooking a fowl-less pond

Algae grows on our long guns.
The coins in her purse
pestle the wetness
in my ear. It’s lovely

As a corpse flower blooming overnight
As a mouth in sheets

frosts the window

              then leaves

lightning laying in its various blues
of the avenue waiting

for life to strike.
It’s distant.
As soil interpreting the memory of the river

moving like derecho
curved by glass-wing flight

It’s lovely.

PATRICK REDMOND is a writer, teacher, and musician living in Brooklyn, NY. Recent writing is forthcoming or featured in Rogue Agent, Matter Monthly, -algia, The Columbia Review, The Hunger Journal, and elsewhere.

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