Graham Foust Poems




Country and Western


The stars


here are hammering

the long-abandoned dancehall,


its floor adrift with ceiling, glass,


appliances and leaves.

Take me apart


into my animal, darling. 


I am not safe

to take apart.


I will sleep with you to breathe.





Nitrous Oxide


No really—

time has two new pieces.

And you is halfs crazy say

the dunes.  A sweet weakness it

would seem, my stupiding

up of everything

to near bumper-sticker-

or-not-much-better level. 

Balloon, you know I hear you. 

The weather’ll come

together when

I’m dead.





Difficulty Swallowing


A pause



nothing on paper.



Have it

and have at it.


Work.  Earn.  Hurt.



You are

what you think you are.


Unwelcome home.





A Heap of Language


I switch on the light and clear

the table.  You come from the ocean

and dry yourself.  Inside us, apologies inch

their way around.  Most of what we say will hardly matter.





Poem with Trademark for a Plastic Disk Thrown From Person to Person in a Game


Fuck magic.


I throw

a Frisbee and it goes


right to you.







The heart’s the eye

we cry

the body through.


I want the word

for “to not

map, ever.”





Graham Foust was born in Knoxville, Tennessee and grew up in Eau Claire, Wisconsin.  He teaches in the undergraduate and graduate writing programs at Saint Mary’s College of California. 

Listen to his grade school’s school song here (.wav file).





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