from what juts out from horizon
i stand on scattered fragmented reflections.
tree thinks through with meyou thinking.
sea overtook us long ago.
waves crash in the forest–-background pushes through
my pores–-like how the suit i wear wears me–-that there’s an edge
of me that doesn’t have an edge–-still present–-
how the fleeting is present–-there’s a rainbow that drowns–-
i cannot embrace the ground–-although i lay me on my stomach
on the dirt–-i cannot wrap my arms around
there are veins all over the trees.
there are vines all over the veins.
how heavy are the clothes that overtake.
i try to look back at me.
meyou glued by space–-how my face cannot face
my face–-the sky falls down–-what juts out
from horizon–-we can’t fit inside horizon–-
pencil body–-flora blowing colors–-(dappling surface)–-fauna
shatters–-borders–-break to pieces–-if just
for a moment–-where’s the road of water go?
i barely hold onto my hand–-it flies away–-
the faintest face–-the black behind it all–-the bloom
after the stretch–-there is a crack in every face–-scratched
all over the surface–-how to unrough–-how to soften–-
the face–-and how the eyes fall into holes–-
and how the darkness cutting into–-peeling back
shedding–-to create–-ripping pieces off–-to make
anew–-roots of my face–-and how much
noumenon surrounds–-around us–-sitting on the bottom
of the sea and looking down–-how the round
sheds everything off that tries to land on it
zack haber is a poet who lives in West Oakland. He is the author of if you want to be one of them playing in the streets… (quiet lightning 2014). Some of his recent work has appeared in Elderly, 580 Split, Sierra Nevada Review, Banqueted, and Eleven Eleven. He has curated The Other Fabulous Reading Series in Berkeley since 2012.