Two Poems


Jared Schickling





The Sun Fell



the sun fell

into a lamp

the sun fell


into coffee

into food

the sun fell


the sun fell

into the street

into sentences


the sun fell

into colorful worms

into cellulose and water


and a plague

the sun fell

the sun



and could not get up

the sun fell


into fields

the sun fell

passed windows


the sun fell

on my parts

on a big outing


the sun fell

with the rain








a driven river flew the big humming bird

in its annual passing had nothing to do with it


never thought he was in the mountains splayed

a mystery like a cloud shade, opposite bank


a day is reporting a brain is perched

their own sorry name watching lucky heads


drawn, to what could wish all terrain vehicles

to live, more intensely emptied and silent


no rattle rattles imaginary, known

a name become real remains yet imaginary


as orange ants were biting blinded in visions

the endless visions ever diminishing visions


on the way into what was there to say

shrinking mountains under that sun









Jared Schickling’s recent writing includes the books Guides, Translators, Assistants, Porters: a polyvocal American epic minus the details (BlazeVOX, 2018), The Mercury Poem (2017) and Province of Numb Errs (2016), and he edited A Lyrebird: Selected Poems of Michael Farrell (BlazeVOX, 2017).  He lives in Lockport, NY and edits Delete Press and The Mute Canary, publishers of poetry.