No Song But Soft Belief

A piccolo-playing praying mantis apprentice greets us at the gate: no song but soft belief. Crop dust showers blow in from the Western hemisphere, dowsing or downing at will. I am tender (hygienic), armed with a candy cane whose pinstripe link melts in one red middle-to-end leap. The bell speaks in velvet dialogue upon the hill. We are far from far.

Say the Sadist Intended No Harm

A pellet or bullet pulled from the balletist’s brow eclipses in thought the striking color of the gaw. An ensemble bubbles at launch, ice skaters slipping on sponges. Say the sadist intended no harm, so then the exit wound would find itself where? The limp of a landscape is noticeable in the mountain’s hump, the slant of a shoe in the spot one steps. Coral blooms soon from the corralled bassoon. What is limber is in limbo.

Bubblegut Tub

Reticulated sheepskin steeples ring in the predatory reset. War machines be warned: We have seen all effects of the causal affect. Any coated man is to be spined by the proximal urchin. Mayday amateurs rendezvous at the ravine, bubblegut tub. It is a process moment. The peeping depths, the puddled beaks. Maelstrom rests upon red cushions. Lips pile up.

Without Cure of Souls

Without cure of souls, an icicled bison bleeds from its hammer moon. Three bells ring in recognition. I have sought ecclesiastical benefice in the windstorm and met with none but a moment of violence. The point of mystery is little more than open-ended hospice. The road is a sword sewn into the morn. Where I walk I am led. When I am brought back, I leave.

Evan Williams is a Chicago-based writer and author of the chapbook "An Extremely Well-Funded Study of Doors" (above/ground, 2023). More of their work can be read in Denver Quarterly, Bennington Review, Indiana Review, and elsewhere. Evan can be found on social media @evansquilliams.