Cleaves Number 3, 2010.

Edited by Matthew Hall and Harry J. Goodwin


In early survey lines about the poète maudits, the poète maudits
swung their Sandman Panelvan off the dust suppressant and

took the shuddering gulch, completely fucking their suspension
so that even before stock-route vowels, the poète maudits broke

down to their hipbones in sky & ate salt straight from the sunhead.
After dry hours split with nerve they abandoned their vehicle

those poète maudits are walking in the dead river’s crockery
waving their umlauts, for a plane or any kind of eye for your eye

While days away you circle up over the chassis, wondering whose
foreign mouths have left this poem out here, to rust and carrion?

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