In the coves littered there like

vitae. Anthologies of an open

air daguerreotype. And now a

few observations of the

interior. Flashes had been

forbidden in some of the lofty

rooms. “Glassless paintings

and the women who love

them.” Of the cocktails we

stood in our own dear stead we

could number at least a thousand

headless gentry. They had been

framed and now heard the

sentencing. The pain as they

parsed. Please nail an edict

above the quay where the steel

meets the ledge where the train

scrapes its sagging hull. Write it

with your own dread hand.

What a forgery this face I felt

at with my fingers.   




Stunted presence of a

matador. Did you mean

metaphor. Red the back flap

of the dust jacket found it

insightful found it

horsebound found it “full of

meaning.” Why Las

Helvetica was not selected.

Baskerville Tragic Old Face.

Maharaj Sans. Take me to

your base. Red a color that

you have oft seen waxed that

shone merrily on some

blatant holly we could have had

I think you know what. Your

slender font on my children.

What if they have jet roped

all outlying steer and finicky

as table talk the ink I

wrangle down. Would you like

to save the changes you have



Gregg Murray lives in Atlanta and teaches at Georgia Perimeter College. His poetry has appeared in Diagram, alice blue, Scythe, Mandala, Midway, Denver Syntax, and other places.