lisa isaacson





Sunlight, winter



Displays a weak extent,

A visible sling for fallen beasts, singular noise which die

Unformed, snowfall. Light cradled marks.

Lost absolute, in raw harps.


These beginning flings

Of pin-and-needle entirety love in error, in a show

Of ancient ceaselessness, pursuit through the open

Cold playground pieces and a pleased child twisting up his swing,

Dates infolding.




The Picnic Car


Ripped off an entrance.

Things are so busy around God last night I kept them outdoors.

In consignment, I believed I was making it.

The evening, strong as a place

Where I batches,

Trees a mass of vents

Where I bathes,

Trees in irregular darknesses


Pulling out

The tree and glass cards.

Usually time piles on the sound though, and the sound side gives.

There is a bear in the needles.







The little patrol we flies.

I never know what to make of the snap in the news.

The compound planes are backing up.

But I like the slow rotating rooster, its pivoted, tin mouth.

An atmosphere already, slow and agricultural.


All the fancy sidewalk slabs are loose.