Open Air
  Matthew Walsh

We worm the woods
under a sky cut with the baby
teeth of stars, the crow
in the locks of the virgin’s
hair, we worm

the woods, we hip-
hop through hyssop,
in our low trek
through the trees we loop
sleeve to sleeve
like paper dolls,

along the lip of the frog
pond, a panopticon
of peepers in a gasoline
swirl of rainbow, pink
winks in the primordial
muck. We sip Toulouse’s
trick in our meandering,
you and me,

slipping into what might be
sanctity, kissing the mushrooms
out of the moss, ferns coil
in response to our heat,
in alders we bite, slow
as molasses, slow
in the sink of our heart.

Past Issues Contact and Submissions About The Steel Chisel Author Profiles