Two poems by Lauren Camp

Updated: Sep 27

Clasp-lock, Winter


The end of the year or the eyelash

of another is a whirlpoint

to our whole persistent

erasure. In today’s version,

cold swarms plausible

places, which means

my fleece-rimmed self stays

in the very least of longer. Time is

a heavy container and the future

passes through

before, before, before.

Though I want more

than epithets and credible peaks,

this afternoon we practice

yelling in long

rocks. We sound it out

while the sun slaps bright, asking

a strictest trust. No one nearby

but sirens. Thick obsession

seems to be the only room

we’ve ever occupied. So I climb

a hill to look long enough

at circles of useful

ravens, blackly identical

in their desires. Brooding season

in a year of meltwater.

The clouds profess their silvered

ripples and a fluttering oath

of sunset dedicates

to rose. I shuttle past precipice. And see—

how we can make a pause

and hunker into it.




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