breath [brɛθ]

  • the uncensored echo flying back into body
    1. reminder to the bottom
    2. to come open
  • each storm in the sheets / is cotton musk of boxers / is two fingers of slick / is cloud curtaining nape / is ridges of spine / is tautness crumpling into tissue
  • becomes battlefield
    1. when he pumps bullets of helium into rubber
    2. a sentence of salt when he leaves & does not look back
  • the word of a lost language : the answer before question

 

what was built

my tongue                   on your torso

is not a bridge

                          a bridge           is a bridge

when there is                           water

in search of

canyon crossing           paths

beaten off

into dust

no happy trails

in this desert

spring’s                        dried-up          morning

wood                           needs more spit

            the river has been stripped

to its ankles               since last year

                                                          cement

                                  once set                       does not budge

the railings                            far from my fingers

          stranded in sunset                               i lick my asphalt

                                  kneecaps & stand                   

i wade into

                      you      a spilling

of sand           

 

Bio:

Full-time broke person with expensive tastes, Andy Winter is a gay, non-binary poet from Singapore. They can often be found feeding stray cats or cleansing their tarot deck under the full moon. They have been published in Cordite Poetry Review, Corvid Queen and Cartridge Lit.