Trilobite is an arthropodologist's delight:
many bizarre creatures; no two alike.

four fragments and “Avalon Street”

Kat Dubois

I’m thinking as if in transmission

—c can live with this green   

seeing              I’ve slept with

stab-stitched   detachment so

I write                           poems


like a habit                         


can be understood as every rooted thing

turning a strange moral tic.

Is presence                         




and awareness of a buzz

I can’t stop writing the      syntax of? 

Let me ask             again.

And do I swoon?

such pandering to antiquity.

the symbol of which           the curl of many a thing I sought


then a phobia:

. . . and the bodies moved into

the names for 

and always, too 

                                             for resolution, 

that sometimes subject                  

                                             and object

                                                         the poetic imperative



but why bother



diagnosis is     but

a spatial distance

My home brims. 

How strange it is    


         “word,” I first wrote


to my

secondhand    danger 





in anger


the force of forgetting

at the level of our own


to wood wind.

and we are left with

the words


                                 the larches

                                 beside the river

                                 of our undoing


For Brendan Allen

They always return to us,

years later or more on some

corner between this line and 

the next; given away by certain 

skews of light, yellowing the underbelly

or perhaps staining strange windows

with images familiar despite the dust

distance leaves on our minds. In this city, 

two adjacent pedestals mourn the

memory of monuments now defunct.

How could we have known any better?


Our time-bought tonics brought clarity

to facts whose mulling over required

safe distance but no concrete particulars

and now we refuse to be abolished by 

chance. At day’s end they won’t find us 

near ground swinging from the shoe-

strings of our has-beens but higher up—

branched in a tree of our own making. 

You catch a ray of light with your mirror

and ever-present preparedness; cup 

history between the palms of your hands

while I watch without trying 

too hard to keep hold.