Dylan Carpenter

That year, spring travelled at six miles per hour, sweeping up Cape Horn through Ecuador,

Cuba through the U.S., a blush, reaching us faster than it ever had before.

When it came, we were in bed, and I imagined hearing hooves pounding in the downpour


Of rain; and after, I went out and gathered the seed balls of the sycamore

The storm had stripped, for you. Now what I want to do is impossible. Whatever place you’re

The anonymous goddess of, I’d like to send an extinct grackle there to tell you what I long for.


I don’t know. Maybe you were meant to hear my love without returning it, to walk the seashore

In a floral pinafore—I’ll sing anyway. I want to say: My heart’s still lit up like a ctenophore

Beached by high tide. Remember when you made me wait with my mouth open for an hour or


The time you ate my belt, at the height of the famine. We don’t do things like that anymore.

O Red Boots, I am Dylan, who cannot snatch the wind. I am your apocalyptic troubadour.


Dylan Carpenter is an MFA candidate at Johns Hopkins University. His poetry appears in Devils Lake, Measure, and elsewhere. 


Photo via Flickr Creative Commons