No more infinite opening.
The winter holds
fast to the blustered hedges.
On a clear day
the sun seems remote
and flayed, the ghosts
high cirrus streak, sweet
Gina, the distance splices her scene
into my strip: in the black-lit
bathroom of the club
our nostrils slid a track
to charisma, powder flared
in the vacuum—
I hoisted her bare ass
to the titanium shelf
and nudged apart her knees.
Into the witless dim
I go, into my own
where a wayward Ruffles bag
wefts desiccated grass.
The sensual world
builds cells in the mind
—false paneled, hatched,
the tongue and groove
limns my limits.
I don’t grow, anymore,
by the inch. I gain
ground. I tone down
the stimulants.


Lisa Wells is a poet and essayist from Portland, Oregon. She is the author of a book of essays, Yeah. No. Totally. (2011) and a chapbook, BEAST (2012). Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in the Believer, Best New Poets, Denver Quarterly, Third Coast, The Iowa Review, Blackbird, and others. She holds an MFA in Poetry from the Iowa Writers’ Workshop and lives in Iowa City.