Zach Fishel


Little sparrows burn their bushy
homes when the snow starts.
Like cut tar and burnt
gears . I want to fuck a poet
who never wrote before.
The bareness lets you see their
wings, standing quiet enough
to see your steam leave
and hesitation comes like releasing
the parking
brake knowing you’re still gonna
move. Why do you like the brooding
rain? Doesn’t it only
make mud?


Disasters grow in the garden.
Canary eyes were
first seen when my dad
and mother made me from the
soft spot between their ribs.
The ghost
of what was a poem
sat in their bed,
sheets pouring out like a flushed
cheek until disruption
was just a mobile
at play unwinding.
The inadequacies
were enough.


Abuse is an exception to
All the rules
Entangling love. As if the
Turnstiles in a station
Airy guilt waft up from the
Broken grass, dolmans
Are dull to the living man.
Zero-in to the fly
Paper. Elegies are wasted
For the kids
Stuck on rooftops
Taking shots from a solo red
Cupping water in the morning
To wash over the face


Zach Fishel is the owner of Horehound Press. His work has twice been nominated for the Pushcart and his first chapbook appears courtesy of NightBallet Press.