Lisa Fishman



The crickets come forward

night being sound

in two permissions self said when

bodies in secret are made of words

thought to be “atoms” because we can’t read them

this the experience bears out

nothing less real for it

hence the pulsing in their midstwhen we are

in the midst of themstill unknown








The permissions lie further back


“It’s an octopus. Those are the arms. I wrote

my name. And I make fish all around the octopus.”


Further back.


“a series of circumlocutions”


Yes Eros/being/method


She has her own hockey skates

there in the garden


Oh overwrite nothing just as a trembling

named what was happeningtree doing

that in the actual


once in a Greek poem

appears in another

also in Dante, andante, remember

the row-covers, gauzy, are perfect for tying

from tree to tree, transforming

farm to midsummer

night’s dreamTheater of Orchard

upcoming next summer








Now crickets are under

the day time sounds



I slept til 15

minutes to 1

then walked on gravel to help wake up

thru the soles of my feet



Also the bean plants’

blossoms are red, twined up the cedar posts

so hummingbirds see them

so they can drink them


In to the blossom

Thel returned screaming—a Blake thing

Experience, story of—



“Three-dimensional affairs, they occupy space in ways that reorient the body

toward typically overlooked physical contours . . . of a given environment.”


—“The Line in Space,” Helen Molesworth on Cecilia

                        Vicuña’s weavings


I stole the mackerel

from Whole Foods, felt it laughing

in my backpack all day


Things in the center, acting


Wildfire wildflowers out








The deep sleep yields

rest for the misshapen eye


Now think.


“The page was folded into a proper dart.”


A certain number of out-of-body experiences are likely not to be perceived–

have you noticed this in your travels?


One Sun Jewel today was very good, eaten in the Juliets & Juane Flamme


Quickly a tightrope was fixed between

a birch forest and the castle


altering memory

vexing the matter








she comes to count the horses

in the wild mustard


he tumbles down the iris



other eye seeing they

ought to alight


quintillions of arrows under the eyelids

must first be removed from the quiver


if it were woven

the spider is tipsy

how are you sleeping


like a radish in the cooling nights

the dirt is breathing all the time too


LISA FISHMAN is the author of five books of poetry, most recently Current (Parlor Press, 2011) and F L O W E R  C A R T (Ahsahta, 2011). She has new work in recent issues of Volt, Make, jubilat and elsewhere.