Three Poems|Ivan Peledov
What a Waste
A fox would never ask a rabbit
where the trees are going at sunset,
but clouds kiss empty freight cars
and slowly implode. Awkward steps
of the priests can’t repeat the pattern
of the stars. Darkness curses them all,
along with cows, traffic lights, flying saucers,
divine flesh and fake music.
It’s a nice little story, they say,
less than a word in length. A coyote
heard it from a dragonfly when it was
too hot to care about the meaning.
But now it’s cold, and the gods
don’t understand our songs.
Flowers
Flowers bloom in the mirrors like broken letters. Poisonous, according to the rumors,
flowers silently count museums of noise in the towns of crumpled birds.
Old
Don’t you tell me of those fabulous creatures
that sleep in the canyons when summer is far away,
nor of a marvelous beasthood on the other side of the Sun,
nor the names of the two-legged who haven’t returned from the dead.
Our water is too old to drink.
Photo by Yeh Xintong on Unsplash
Bio:
Ivan Peledov is a poet living in Colorado. He has been published in Unlikely Stories, Eunoia Review, Sonic Boom, Illuminations, and other magazines.
