Christopher Cheney


They kissed their homes and they kissed people who had been sleeping for hours and they kissed the lid of a friend's coffin and they made their mothers cry of happiness and they drank coffee in the early dark and they heard hooting in the trees and they warmed their hands inside their wadded shirts and they smelt beer in the air and they motioned to the sky and they spilt on their pants and they thought about sex and they backed up their pickups and they heaved firewood over the lip and it shook their flatbeds and jerked and they were asleep and women kissed them and dead animals kissed them and animals kicked them and they were asleep.



They slapped their faces and sat on the edge of bathtubs and ran a comb down their forearms and felt happiness creep into their pockets and found their dogs wrapped up in blankets and the clouds were big and yellow and firm and in the road there is a man hitchhiking and there are so many lovers in the supermarkets and there are those who have bad sex and there is you who is probably getting ready for brunch and there are those who don't know yet of the dead and they yank their hands from scolding water and wait.






I wrote these poems in a colossal 24-hour computer lab. As of March, you will need a key card to enter after midnight.