Basest where turquoise autumn sautés
Its crayfish, having a lager, the morbid
Optic nihilism nulls season. Ritual
Tames what’s errant in a year, since other
Events don’t recur; for however impactful
The reroof was on your circadian rhythm,
It happened once and only. What’s unnerving.
Annually the trove rotates civil miasma
To preserve space for fresh insult. The property
Is public, after all—the lamest utopia.
Nature would have vetoed half our nouns.
Nevertheless, autumn enjoys itself, Born
In the USA
antheming the afternoon
That otherwise was sepia all through.
Animus quibbles, nudity spares the public
Of faces, directing focus to its corrupt liquids
Which molest as passively as totems.


Logan Fry lives in Austin, Texas, edits Flag + Void, and contributes to The Volta Blog. His poetry has appeared in or is forthcoming from publications including Fence, Boston Review, Denver Quarterly, New American Writing, Prelude, and Best American Experimental Writing (BAX 2014).