Kimberly Lyons


  • What is this passing flick a stiffened glue
  • drop in midair, a single tawny mushroom like
  • an ear to call in to.
  • An invisible urn of curled threads.
  • A clay pitcher patched as if scarred dirt flesh
  • holds black pools of night air
  • provisionally. A mutable intersection
  • from which you could pour out a shape.
  • It’s a fishing line of silver dots.
  • The miniscule fish in air flow among
  • these swimming motes of thought.
  • I saw a ragged doll dress here hung on the wall.
  • An empty white office envelope in the dark.
  • I wrote a letter to you and lost it in my hand.



  • Filaments

  • A mass of twiglets
  • humped where breasts might be
  • bear a mossy, wood pharaonic crown
  • by the parking lot and old factory windows
  • that fluorescently shine on boxes of yellowed Xerox paper.
  • Filaments reflected hang in the air.
  • Everyone is coming back.
  • Passover must be near.
  • Chartreuse buds coiled near my hand seem too tight to unfold.
  • Only twinkie wrappers shine peripherally under a tire.
  • A yearning in April that is forgotten the other months.
  • A sweater I found at Goodwill of wool
  • and eucalyptus, crumbles yet seems to regrow, like soil.
  • Black plastic mesh over white metal stairs forms an
  • undulant doorway.
  • Underneath, I finally see
  • Antiques
  • is the word dim gold letters spell.

Author Bio

Kimberly Lyons is the author of Calcinatio (Faux Press, 2014) and Approximately Near (2016,  She publishes Lunar Chandelier Press and lives in Chicago.