Anne-Adele Wight
A Line Is a Series of Points
something that doesn’t exist is crossing
over the threshold of a haunted library
diagonal
ghost stroke from a half-dead pen
do not use this version
as the crow flies
correcting an errant measure
infinite distance
attaches one vermilion point to the next
a line doesn’t exist
a line is a series of points
neither wave nor particle
spectral conveyor belt
vertical rainbow spans the creamy height
of a lighthouse on the Indian Ocean
its green beam in sunshine set to zero
Green Sea Cube
an entire sea runs green
through the green frame of a cube
all spectrum of salt green
all salt these forms
flowing through green
salt to the watching eye
sweet water to their green
their selves
their fins their luminescence green
their tipping point their need
their need for four green sides
green surety of top and base
green stop on their salt road
salt horses grazing green
Hendecagon: Eleven Sides
eleven doves come at dawn
beaks bloody from her dreams
she’s in love this cold summer
with the medieval number of excess
tearing every bouquet to find its thorns
looking for the right window
to wave a detachable sleeve
afternoons at the planchette
she asks her dead boyfriend
would we have had lovely children?
you can’t draw eleven sides with a compass
out there on the turnpike toward Boston
are those the hoofbeats of romance?
Anne-Adele Wight is the author of An Internet of Containment, The Age of Greenhouses, Opera House Arterial, and Sidestep Catapult, all from BlazeVOX. Her work has been published internationally in print and online. She lives and writes in Philadelphia.