Apartment Poetry Quarterly

3A              3B              3C              3D              3E              3F





The blinds don’t move
when wind’s an iris rising.


Caught in a current,
the last raisin leaves
are put down for winter.


I look at a photo
of dense clover—
it doesn’t move.


Not even the chalky back
of an eyelid twitching
moves me.


The blind’s shadow
like an itch across the wall bends
around a corner. Into the open

eye its light comes and I take it.