Dyllan Moran

Updated: Feb 9

There is no way to simulate not being here.

Umbrella hands on balcony kissing. Sweet

cherry bong. Green gas station in Fort Collins,

rain, carried here.

A dark horse, soft at the edges, lying on the grass.

Suture becomes silence in these recitations of location

(tomorrow a widening field enjambed between red thumbs.)

I heal you with peaches: slices of mandelin

on Tuesday mornings or automatic machine

gun writing, in Italian, when it’s June.

The secret is, there is no thermocline.

It doesn’t exist.

This verb even, soft at the edges,

is a fiery lawn and coca-cola in summer,

69 grams of sugar after noon.

Imagine the atmosphere rolled in

my mind like it rolled over these grasses.

Imagine that, for example,

“if it is said, it exists,”

no wor[l]d more real than these sedimented striations of page.


 

This winter, Dyllan Moran will be completing his BAs in both Creative Writing and Japanese at the University of Colorado, Boulder. His work has previously appeared in Entropy Magazine, Walkabout Creative Arts Journal, and Journal 2020.

Recent Posts

See All

[NOTE: Our website is designed for desktop viewing. This poem's format may be affected when viewed on a mobile device.] Palm of the Hand NYC, 1990 And you undid me. Undone smoking by the window facing

[NOTE: Our website is designed for desktop viewing. This poem's format may be affected when viewed on a mobile device.] Patrick Street on St. Paddy’s Day My heartfelt player, rock star in recovery, ch

NOTE: Our website is designed for desktop viewing. This poem's format may be affected when viewed on a mobile device.] St. Hildegard’s Feast Day After, visions of anatomic reds, a shadow on the kitche