Eric Forst

A poet pretends to speak for the season: A boudoir blooming everywhere, the lovely patina cracked. And the landscape does not transcend a boy with muddy socks yanking small leaves, ripping an insect. He tucks it in his pocket and whispers in the face of all life, the ...

A bus passes on my way into town and I shout at its passengers, “we aren’t well assembled!” My head quivers. I stride carefully past merchants drinking coffee and selling magazines on the sidewalk’s stark eternal lines. I can’t talk to them. I’m overwhelmed by the ...