two poems

by Chris McCreary

Themes & Variations : Sketches for Unfinished Figures

Perish the interval

when it isn’t

simply ornamental :

old programs

won’t update,

so they blame the game,

not the tablet making

the brain pan

nap

its mangle.

Damaged, manages

maybe outside

the lines,

squiggles on a doctor’s

chart.

*

Doc, we went beast

mode &

the domes,

well,

the Lord conscripts

the ficklest

eyelids, ogles us

with ticklish

licks.

Themes & Variations : Petit Genre (Diptych)

Inspector, I was busy burdening others

when the coup occurred. I was speaking

my truth to this geriatric cat who then

menaced my ankles. How gauche

those duelists mistook this pocketbook

for a shotgun sawed off. Let's say

the protocols were implemented,

but the pinworms still got in.

*

It follows that freed from fever,

the ailment shaken, they'd veer

far from the blastments

& contaminants,

the blandishments

would retract. Empirically speaking,

we’d imbibe the contrast dye & spines,

once fused, would remove into

imposture. Inspector, don't you know,

don't you care about the slivers shaved

away, clay pigeons wasted on plates,

sliced too fine for microscopes

meant for more organic, more

magnanimous matters?

Photo of Chris McCreary

BIO: Chris McCreary's latest book of poems, awry, was published last year by White Stag. He lives in South Philadelphia and on IG at @chris___mccreary.