Poetry Corner


Some mornings I forget to wash
and I wonder how you breathe,
it seems, always through the nose.
Remembering this, I sneeze:
you smile, joke;
there’s a lot of mucus in the world,
this morning.


Domestic Living

Oh, and I changed my passwords;
I lost my credit card, have no landline
to speak of; turned twenty-two years old.

That which will be deleted
ought to first be saved for forty days.

I threw out the aubergines;
counted the stamps on your coffee card,
and spraywipe’d my reflection
without looking
too carefully.



Do I need a shower?

It’s eight-eighteen, Sunday night
and I am walking home, or to your place.

Probably watch something,
and will probably feel the need
to perform dramatic reënactments
in the bathroom mirror,
come Monday.

This article first appeared in Issue 17, 2017.
Posted 2:06pm Sunday 30th July 2017 by Jeremy Spruyt.