Apartment Poetry Quarterly

6A              6B              6C              6D              6E              6F


5A Joshua Ware



It's 5 til, my love

It's 5 o’clock my love

Its motion appropriately chartered

An appropriate charter: still-bee

Under sunflower bristles

Charter a motion through that dream

Not a large man, a tall man, as she bathes

Here is a leech for your iron

Lamp oil

Transfused as if the motion were a serum

Between us

Teal toenails at pool

Caught up in deactivation of body


Goldfinch feeding clinging to netting

A spiral motion ending at xiphoid process

Straddles lower back with feet hooked over shoulders

A netting of bodies

One isn’t taken as such. The maples, blow as they must. And one hums onto her skin first with blind luck, then an intimacy through groupings of leaves. What is it, wind? Stop I’m remembering that, the result of which an intense claustrophobia when one’s head is held immobile, even in jest, when one cannot turn the head aside but must look only before one. The wind is a lacing. And what I cannot remember, tongue’s underside pulpy, unfinished.

Repurposed eyelashes, crosshairs

Repurposed harrowing

Repurposed Cerberus

To bundle from hell and present to a coward

There are matters the skin broods against, say a spit of asphalt, limestone gravel forced into the heel of the hand and the accompanying devaluation of the aster by the roadside. What isn’t white here, snout and asymmetric teeth, a bit of quality? I don’t know most feathers? Must the record be a father? A novel of nobody, of course, as I’ve rarely been known. The hawk is sleek coming up the embankment with a single thrust of wings, what is sleek is the memory of that hawk. The play it affords of sense of my own. There are birds and plants. The first honest thing approaches the nape. I feel confined to my body. The first honest thing remains that so many people are the same. I believe writing is a notion of emptying one’s thought. I foreclose any narrative. Amiss, apricot.

Zebra swallowtail

Sufficient body harbored away

Chartered to each tributary, hell

Foreclose. Perhaps I’m not stupider than they. I’m only here by those I touch. The simple truth is regulated. Salvo. Work your tongue in, deeper and you’ll be happy. There’s a victim here, and a ghost. Opening a pamphlet, seeing a bat splayed with pins and stained crimson. The bat is an effective tongue, huddle in wait.

Line of them extending her body to them
Yes, it can be a substitute
Rose petals with beetles replaced, fraction-sun
He: look in her my arm ends
She: look have incorporated him

Helicopter, circling. Some mechanized part among the grasses. If the thought wasn’t nebulous, what? Description is so entirely other than experience. Description proceeds at a/ The chopper again. Is flight so loud? What can we install in the arm, at the house of the left thumb, as a courtesy which is intolerant of insignificance? Eyelid smooth as the new pea’s loop. On why I can’t simply describe. The simple description is something other than those prospects, spending aside. The pressure constitutes this. There’s a point at which one revels in the abandonment both as a strategy of self-preservation and as a way of expanding the body beyond its immediate biological antecedent. One abandons description. I’m no maker. Quickly the notion of character subsides and the breeze navigates the fjord between sock and pant leg, its coolness not quite a release. I’m realizing you’re a frame with those chores, with the skin’s shine after licking it. Paladin.

Moves with teeth her lip

Peaches less fragrance

Residual bleeding

Repeat bleachfields

The sanctified, a little wasp; hard pressed the air escapes in gaps between bodies, wet & repetitive. We have become our body. I wish there was something other than this disjunction, some spiraling sound altering in pitch as it approaches the bricks, birds, then leaves giving over the barbules and feathers. Deltoid dips into biceps, there are those arms which will never leave one’s mind. Is all confidence sexual? Self-doubt came with the snakes; a twining one only bears because indelible.

What is care-free is laden without oracle. Mated with another’s hand.

Thinking and remarking, expand upon goldfinch

Gleaning like from suture


One has never had a story or even a story’s semblance. The apples, long and wasps, one recalls how cool the wind was; clover. There is a damp patch of grass still. The parasitic image, still: one recalls in that, what I recognize is this loss into your body. One moves solo and it is so decorous. I didn’t know the burden I’ve placed. Why does one crave such intimacy? Blown in a circle the bluebird returns and the porch accepts. This division of the intimate. Her throat goads, there is not past. The skin pushed open because rolled forward; is this Space? The police are/ In some position of authority, wire from the chin. Compactus. I eat one (only). Sense the self meanders through. To have been given away one’s whole life. The hack and to draw across the sun some angry metal as a filament. Thus lighted an angel of wilted limbs immersed, one falls and will only remember the wisp of some forgotten ritual thing; a hand over the mouth or placed atop the head as a sort of damper. You. How could that be. I and cannot. A glorious hood cloaks the skin and one is aroused from the foot’s arch upward. The little, guttural buck the tongue accompanies into the teeth. Umpteenth.

From her tongue, walnut skin

Cupped with one’s tongue


The sense of space emanating here is close to encaustic, things on the point of motion but fully fleshed with its proceeds. Twinning the sun between aluminum cans. Twinning between these and the car’s windshield. Twinning the sun splits his mouth. Is that desperate? The man is moving faster. The contentment which exudes from their bodies in play. Categories. A character named Martha with a thumb for a hand pours cool water from a pitcher. Nudge the glass. It’s there and wet. One begins a catalogue and forgets, crow wheeled by the nest through the unsettled pressure of the smaller bird. This intensity circles. Before and after, time doesn’t constitute improvement but excessive lack of control. The details are one whittles from one, a more apt drama. Immediate apricots. The mystery one lives.

June bug and hemoglobin and stores

One hasn’t that peril. Assume and an aspect will arrive as the door shuts. Easy on the details. Onset. The quick spectrum thrummed from her ring. What isn’t apparent the body splits with an eye toward enticement.

I’ve stopped trying to create you.