Anne Boyer Poems



She Is Aural



but would rather be vertigo.
She is a conversation with a child
in her ear. Cleaning off her vinyl,


also her mother, also she cleans each song

she will no longer hear. Nor she believes in that
carol of the page. Erasing that thick chorus, also

sighing unpleasured, she must unsong.
Compared to her, a traintrack is immortal.
Also a track seems always long, but more Callas.

Also she wants one's distance, the other's moving.
Tonight, before that weird opera of whistles,
those trains, also those tracks have been scoring

her among the mouseweed.
The opera thinks when she caesuras
she must most wastefully resemble mouseweed –

a Gregorian gone dim. It takes more

naturally to her to singsong over

the whistle. Also she must limit sighing.

Also she could then conduct the allegro over
so the train and the tracking may hold her for time.







Anne Boyer lives in central Iowa.  Her work has appeared in or is forthcoming

at TYPO, The Denver Quarterly, Exquisite Corpse, Diagram, and other






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