Four Poems by Chris Hosea




No one came under
leaves drenching plastic

cups lit up over-
passes pissing thrills

a ragged border, call it Texan lace God
bless this memory hole

hot set top warm soaps
animals out race streets closed off

locked with shops
so they can paste new tip cup jokes

the first last days.

Prepare soups in the reference
section, painkiller

sting the singer, signs the Scorpion
traced on Hayden’s smashed

lens flyers dream they mulched those
fields in turn, turn your mop to

rented speakers, lights too
I believe you, saying I am going to

welcome shades of structures, plaints
pleats, ripped faces, subway walls, the will

got me here, so I made lists
and lost in the fall all invited

sought other reunions
studying to be yoga instructs

best coffee in town, Om, it must be





To place a growing woman
using tough gloves
in rock gardens
out front

depends on how you turn home
whirl around sunset

slides of shoestring tours
U-turns, artifacts
stop talking for one second
time today

In the house
we eat chimes cut
flowers cloud-like broccoli
on oilcloth

A blue light switched on
deep in me pits

Painting a peacock badly perched
on drooping vines
on yarrow weeds

Making little sense edible altogether
microphones we carry sponge
words like pages
or croutons, familiar, offline, dedicated

Epiphany telling this
I am not able to say I have quieted days faster

Getting on my last being
recall where we were just
at start

A bit of rain in online trees
even stones soak it in
that feature in today’s camera work





Blood and tears marked as wet
ripped days, trash goods
sift uselessness

For what colors blue colors orange colors green the field
(outdoors in)

rusting tracks melt stops in snapshot
polite smile for the time

few these days printed sneaking
into the ward at night

the chase itself
of course
would have been
workers such as shrug the game never was

owning that invisible trance
join an inflated parade baby effigy
tethered to street

comfortable couches in there
ambient music
ends up on the share drive
the administrator named boulevard





Now you’re in
there is nothing you can’t see

electric lights: bobbins
an energy, quantity, number this
abstract thing violence at eight
point five million
organic bananas ninety-nine cents per
pound make babies
of us all of us

again data’s voice girlish enacts
Archie Bunker accents hidden slacks power wears

then it is indescribable.

it bites
humid climates
subtropical fairly spread
in air, part of the greater
circling and plunging, hover however
furling huge blooms

I scarce know what
it is sharp and free
its present whiteness
it is charming notes.

Half of the oil saved, Tom
Wolfe said, by Dallas residents a pity
a whim, slip you an Ambien
to a new extent, a new energy, that is the case

confess group facts fail
to say rejoicing Ssips
drinks ninety-nine cents.



Chris Hosea was born in Princeton, New Jersey on November 11, 1973. He lives in Brooklyn. He earned his AB at Harvard and his MFA at the University of Massachusetts Amherst. His poems appear in Conjunctions, 6×6, VOLT, Denver Quarterly, Harvard Review, Horse Less Review, Wildlife, Swerve, LIT, and many other magazines. Find out more about Chris at and

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