Bureau of

Poem By Joyelle McSweeney

This is the body of,
waiting to turn on.

graced with a little tremor,
a little-known form, a fibrous hook,
a flimsy lever that makes the jar work

a lever and a clasp

:voila. The pathetic filofax
unfurls, the owl describes;
on air; makes an apse; lopes left

off the phonepole, woodenly.
we rise above the wind park,

our whorled fossil, pinned open.
our emergency kit
holds aspirin. digitalis. adrenalin-in-in.

Comments about Bureau of

There is no comment submitted by members.

Rating Card

5 out of 5
0 total ratings

Other poems of MCSWEENEY

Dear Fi Jae 2 (Ms. Merongrongrong)

Now I know what it is to bite the tongue inside

the mink stole: I do not want

my inspiration

King Prion

Lay in an array of pixels
Fat, simulated proteins
Looks just like nutrition!


Leaf-keep, un-sibyl; if the soul
Has the weight of a swallow, what less
Has the weight of a sip? You equal

The Siren

The puppy must be learned of all this material.
No map of the hospital. First, the war effort.
Then, the war itself. The water makes and remakes
its walls. No persons or boats are allowed in them.

Third Poem for the Catastrophe

melting rainbow that embrace this roof
persistent covenant
hangs around