Minor Dogma

I believe in snapping apples

from the hard joints of August.

I believe in holding them high

until they become the blood

marble eyes of hawks over

fields. I believe in the earth.

In the way rain fingers through it

like full moons of acid dropped

into a glass. I believe in taking nothing

back. I place my chest on the hardwood

floor and start to believe it’s a small cut

of sun being cooled from behind

a distant galaxy. I feel the air

fold over me like a coffin lid. I believe

in Cambodia. In fishing through

ponds of rice paddies with silk

hands. The word monsoon beading

on my tongue until it forms a pool

where my teeth are the basements

of flooded buildings. Pull up the carpet,

pick out your ruined words. I peel

flies off the skin of dying fruit

and smear them on a napkin.

I flip it over and write: if we are only

clouds, picture me a wild animal.

Watch me foam over.

Philip Schaefer

Ani - June 11, 2015

This is gorgeous.
CHARLEY SPRINGER - August 22, 2015

Here’s something I don’t want to leave for awhile. I want to push each line into the possible. And then do it again and again. I don’t wish I could write like this. This is enough. Glad you’re in the world, Phil.