by Mathew Mcgovern
I see a deep forest
in the evergreen futon
whose wrinkles are brimming
with landscapes, little hills
written through wavering folds
shapes resembling eyes just closed
a brow arching in and a large crooked nose
indiscript visages won’t deign to define themselves
Perhaps these fissures ressemble glaciers
stacked, full and monumental
or veins and patches of flesh splayed out
on this awe-inspiring canvas,
laudable yet floppy futon
content in the corner of the room
the sag of whose own weight
makes a low wide smile.
Future Histories 