Everything plural in adrift.
A lambkill spread meadowed
and the lowland witnessed
our calico bloom. Hollow croak
like waves, forming a crest to
break. A chance to rattle
exists in open country but I donít
lay blame. Werenít lost when
I found it. Some people left
out of doors drowneded and afear
hurting again.This season,
Iíll handle the milk, while you
whistle a beautiful song to waltz
or be executed to.


Lump sugar in dilution set for uproar.
Storm and rage take shape little by
and the lilac outs itself in incidental questioning.
An outpost crawls across the full weight of air,
splits off to bother enemy column and mind of his.
Her troubles sorrowed root and branch. Now weíre quits.
This flood season as before diffracts the light
to unravel the bottom of things. With oneís hair
down slack, undisciplined child. Bloodworm set,
what makes you so anyway.

What makes you so fit to be tied in these flash
of days. Dilation on the outskirts. Noone is leaving.
A flood is our flood and here jump about nothing
so troubles slide down. A crawl to keep where
our heads are.


Katy Chrisler received her MFA from the Iowa Writers' Workshop and has held residencies with the Land Arts of the American West program and at 100 West Corsicana. Recent work of hers has appeared in Tin House, Octopus Magazine, and The Volta. She currently lives and works in Austin, Texas.