the waves were the waves that were a thousand years ago

—

writing so lawless

—

hill blocks view

—

toward which the action of the sea is directed

—

you put a letter in the mailbox and you open it
again to see that it’s gone

—

the instrument of whale bone

—

only resistance

—

what of code

—

the horror

—

without a door
it doesn’t end

—

for a long time

“What’s this? Fucking magic?”

—

I found a moth inside my mailbox

and it flew at me

—

like thinking

about my eyes moving inside
my head when I read

—

the oracle

—

dissolved as everywhere

—

L.19 Strange flavor vegetable with chicken finger

—

the machine

—

sans salt, the corridor

—

of elegant madness

—

slid out on the ice she turned to me and said
“wouldn’t have minded an accident if it weren’t that it was new”

—

coast, six miles of bone

—

in so many words

the amputee

—

I pay for every word

—

we stare at

—

for years

 
 
 

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Peter Giebel is a writer and educator living in Denver, CO. In 2014, he received his MFA in Literary Arts from Brown University. His work has appeared in or is forthcoming from A Bad Penny Review, Bodega, The Destroyer, Drunken Boat, Lana Turner and elsewhere.