What is the Limit?

The limit is pain.
No more friends

to shine in
aloud. It makes

sense out in the
meadow’s cover.

We await snow
& are climbing

the invisible chopper
ladder while music

fades down
as with the moon

come morning.


Which Parts Have You Forgotten?

Eyes wide awake to shun
the night’s grip

or sea to shin to road to
route to rid us of those

small worries, petty
thefts of pride or consolation.

Don’t let me back inside when
I say—as children are waking

& so singing & so climbing.


Song to a Glass of Ice Water

By water’s quay edge
to rocks & a crag

the white scouring ocean
& its yellow wolf of wind

on fire wants into
a talk with those

well beyond the fires
thereafter, thereon

thereof, & herein.


Poem to Tomaž Šalamun

Has enough been
said for the water in us?

Steps to mend, another
hot radial saw spinning

my gaze dropped to
the look of the dead

& yet another method to vanquish, yes
to hold dear as a bunny.

To harbor the hinge, harry
the quarter moon to its spot—

To listen with your hands cupped
just over your ears?

You have this one mouth.
You’re from tonight.




[Joshua Marie Wilkinson is the author of Swamp Isthmus (a new book of poems from Black Ocean 2013) and The Courier's Archive & Hymnal (a new book of prose from Sidebrow Books 2014). He lives in Tucson, Arizona.]

Copyright © 2012 by Joshua Marie Wilkinson, all rights reserved. This text may be used and shared in accordance with the fair-use provisions of Copyright law. Archiving, redistribution, or republication of this text on other terms, in any medium, requires the notification of the journal and consent of the author.