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H. V. Cramond

Pre-existing condition

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we'd go to a hotel bar and I'd have your
olives and you'd have that
hat we can't afford
from Macy's, you know
the one you tried on when
you told me your organs
were binding your metaphor
is seven millimeters

and mine may be
in the toilet
by Saturday
I have more blood now
than a girl can
carry but I can't give it
to you or to anyone

even after our guts
are cleaned

Field Season

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often water softens
the heart
more seldom
a squeeze and
out-turned pockets
undone by

You are nothing, she says to the washing machine.

Shatter offense (a fence) of grain
And you,
my quiet one,
keep a turned back

afraid of the obvious
an unlocked door
a path unobstructed
she nests into fear, sickens

paired cranes click warning
echo buzzing, biting bugs:
your city skin
has grown you soft
and your solitude

cicada whines and
her face
an accordion


and release but mostly


behold the human
barometer: leaking

brushed back buzz of
sweat-stuck hair and
relief rain
pops pressure and builds
stagnant (swat)



how precious is
that which drops
death stripped and thrown

the coolness behind closed
eyes and moving hair
and twigs not yet gathered

to look at the world
full of wonder
requires an ease
to dismantle
the stocks with nakedness,
a sigh

ink stained
pared to the tips
working breed
she reminds her fingers
how to scale

on this tree
on the first day


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Pretend you know the meaning of words
the world cup is worse than hockey because it doesn't end
and there are those shorts
children do not belong in coffee shops
sometimes we want to talk or not talk
and there are more of them and they should know better
backpacks and a plastic bin
iPod on your arm and sighing
everything on the outside
how burning can end
how time can stop and there is only noise
what are the reasons for
seriously bad music
another sense and another

➥ Bio