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This is Jacket 14 - July 2001   |   # 14  Contents   |   Homepage   |

This issue of JACKET is a co-production with SALT magazine

Bob Harrison

Four poems

shirt sleeve and flower

one arm, the hold pits deer
to tar — one head, other
numbers count and feel this fish
swum, scented parts that curl all
stomach covered bowls — went
down to pens, steep river one
time walk. trains throw this
drawn one doing Eye
bring clocks to warn what
cross did . . . dream wooden stuff,
pounce like a cat, drawn to
WHERE kind is trimmed, done
soft along the mountain ridge —
positions wheel up some
tone, some cane called black
dish . . . dive when heads

is sent. reek toward similar
kind clock is, drawn foam and wound
so long — print. teases then are won
ass. 9 drawn to break, 9 drawn to doors
with any store along find finished
gather. mean as
canceled rain, a hard point
falling . . .

switch burnt talon bed

what has your rent dissolved, what easy
ocean says your foam embattled mouth
takes care of cells, the last impression
burning Big Foot frozen into snow
what word
curled up the battery that burns
and cuts through bony stalls, red horses
drink their fields in finished sentences
they ride all day, school bottoms turned
with openings in reddened cream —
dropped with orange crates and some
deformed remark, wicked pictures stored
with wads, packed letters — hot with
hanging bulls, their blooded floor after
a fight, rimmed instead, they were
inside the boat that heads this bomb
to wear your death, separate love around
the word that ends. raining rotted socks
in beaches, whales, attachment
solid switches turned their onion talk
to bleed all wishes, all their burnt joint halves
with underwater pearls pulled up
from shallow military cakes
and won with knives, their dust, instead

heart deterrence gate, throb it

Way that hanging is not spelled, washes
lines in separate Xs — neat rows of corn.
without a face, never beaming water
out the spill, to weaker drones around
its softened ash, wearing dreams together
Death — some more giraffes, what seems
to go around my blood, around the skull
that letters crash into with memory, their
magnet leaks. wearing drums, steam
because this waits into the neck-bone,
sheriff done what is . . . Dead. no reason
to improve the metal, faces crane this ache
to wonder, steams the bone inside the CPU
in oceans borrowed — ripped through under-
water rain, what’s enemy to wear, what’s
oven walking is — no mind, no gate, no
stopped delivery in talk and wrinkled go —
with steam, a brick from 1890, canes all
washing dust, the mortuary letter goes
through poverty. in pressed up sand,
the desert grips your flattened state to each
this fossil, weapons drone around a patch
    of heads

definition of S dream code — Panamá sew — snake warmer

grown to give this gun
to you that sings
around another metal grip
inside the stall that goes
against the marker that has cuts
and calculates their known
deception, something ran
instead around the parked
encircled disks. wagon, tent
was all that heard, no mouths
were twice together found or
borrowed in the ceiling of
another torso promising this
twice together head, this push
through veins that gives your
death another word, another
his, another whipping rain
with any arm and any end

finished — pocketed amount
that goes around the dust
inside their word, their forest
cut like wounded deer in sights
they have you down around
the bear that stole and bit
no wash, no jail in beaming what
had nothing in this earth
to speak the level of their tongue
that is all known, and all the S
that Panamá has had in hand
with me, I dream you were
      my heart all sewn
      together by their was
      and is is known
      right now

J A C K E T # 14   and   S A L T # 13   Contents page
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This issue of Jacket is a co-production with SALT magazine,
an international journal of poetry and poetics, edited by John Kinsella
PO Box 937, Great Wilbraham, Cambridge PDO, CB1 5JX United Kingdom ISSN 1324-7131

This material is copyright © Bob Harrison
and Jacket magazine and SALT magazine 2001
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