ALLYSSA WOLF

THE EXCHANGE-SPECULATOR

two hinged slates
on all but hinged side

turned face up
world of sweet-rotten

things, the park-bench
gloss to suffocate the eye

a common hairdo
the little food

hanging out of the sky
hanging

contract rather than divert it
“you make the dog”

maroon
nothing violet and yellow

or like mutes in blonde starlight turning the tonal flooding, as a pointed gun, shot back,
shot of sweat glittering, a sizzle on everyone’s face, in a halo of foam though still goes
the plough, as sailing ships, sky machines and small wooden rectangles

it walking
wind cut model

why moonscape
foreign number