Hooves

I try to break

patterns like a fist

to a mirror.

It always ends 

up like a deer 

through my windshield,

its waist caught

by shards of glass,

hooves hitting

the wheels.

 Crane Flies Came

               And did absolutely nothing until 

           they wanted to have sex of course but 

                        once, I saw a crane fly hang glide,

           it swooped into the sink,

                            daring parachute pilot, wind walker,

                  thunder surfer I’m sure. And then it stopped

                            to do nothing, the sink studier. Must’ve noticed me

                     watching. Shy guy, the cutest 

                                        long-legged monster

                            you’d ever see be the precursor to a pandemic.

                      And as soon as I left, so did it, its shadow scribbling

              against my wall. The gall of the unproductive 

                    pest, bug-stud, symbol of abject laziness, poet in past

                life I’m sure. Let us be lazy together, a duo

                           of wing-mans, a shadow of ghosts,

               remarkers of the unremarkable.

Kyle Okeke (Twitter: @kyleohpoetry) is an economics major and creative writing minor at the University of Houston and has appeared in the literary Journals ‘Glass: a Journal of Poetry’, ‘Screen Door Review’, and ‘The New Southern Fugitives’, among others.

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