Spring Explosive

Spring Explosive
*after Dalí, and Eiseley

For a frost, offspring 
of a sunrise is corrosive, 
while turmoil of a kernel beautifies 
to violence. A chrysalis 

Liquefies cracks to knives,
striking psychedelic petals. Burning
dyes intertwine a pulsing
green that drives the season

To kinesis. Inside a pod, 
an upthrust grasps what thrives, 
spuming: fruit and flower 
subsume an epoch. Storming

Chlorophyll balms the crust
of unclothed globe. Colossal 
palms warm to holding 
life, divining: into form.

Copyright © by Kevan Copeland

An Artisan

An Artisan

The persona is a bruise,
not a self. It builds
being via craftsmanship.

Structure covers lack
of formation—scaffolding
camouflages decoration.

The body ages, contains
something young—
in him performs

The play
of discipline and inspiration.
Calloused, grasping

Is now granting
shape: into fabrication.
Construction is cacophonous:

Beams pirouette
before steeling; a father
once latent, now testing.

Copyright © by Kevan Copeland

Nuclear Dive

Nuclear Dive

Reactor, your rods 
flicker and slither—hair
beguiling me, swimming 
in spent fuel. Refusing
perimeters, I want an excitement

Dosimeters read. Your criticality
initiates frisson; I risk 
beta burns, dodging
your doses 
strewn throughout cooling

hues—though I’m losing 
acuity. Why am I 
diving, reaching? Am I
an Ama, searching

For Japanese pearls? Am I
a Fukushima girl
caught in a seiche?
No, I’m whorled into your
geisha chicanery,

Pool of blue fabrics winding
to you. What is the core?
A murderous thrust, a phosphor
essence I’d forgotten I knew
in me, before you.

Copyright © by Kevan Copeland

Cataract At The Lip

Cataract At The Lip

Of the glass, vision sipped
from the gush of amygdala—open
your brim to the lush
of Monet. Pour from the frame:

Chardonnay in a quiver,
disperse and flow—livid
strobes of Van Gogh.
Then, harden and flay

Off clots to metallic
coruscations—figments of Klimt.
Now: stiffen to spirits
dispirited, and disparate—pause

In thoughtful paralysis: Hopper.
No stopper for an Imagist
cascading the palate: paint
an intoxicant; the body, a blotter.

Copyright © by Kevan Copeland

Vacation In The Inner State

Vacation In The Inner State

There was a singe of summer
barbecue as something warmed
her, sipping. There was no curfew 
on desire, in her wineglass,
or outdoors.

She scanned the span of backyard
grass, the unshaved blades:
her ocean, shattered 
tiles: her shore.

Her body waves to bathing
suits never bought, only savoured
on a screen: now her mind.
No money meant a richness
grew, in spite, as did appetite

For one she writes. He likes
men. She craves
him, still. For in exchange, words
are close. Her husband’s 

Touch is otiose, while her beloved
prose projects 
a tenderness that sculpts
deserted sands
to ecstatic glass within her.

Copyright © by Kevan Copeland


*Patti McGee

Surely the sky is for swimming.
Kissing the curve, the perimeter: 
a pool built for my skimming.

Palms swivel in the breeze,
fluid: an inverted aquarium freeing
soles swirling, upturned.

Blonde was conceived to unfold
strands of sunbeam, concentric
streaming from my acrobatics.

The whirlwind is watery; 
somatic craft pauses
within photography: skating releasing

Wheels and blades—transfiguring
imitation to pure ideation:
culmination into liquid motion.

Copyright © by Kevan Copeland



The ceiling must contemplate spheres 
orbiting my commotion. 
Colleagues and I improvise 
fluent choreography.
Patrons adjudicate; feed me 
currencies I earn. Their appetite 
for deliverance, I serve.

Yet performance doesn’t appease
past authority. Find something real.
As if what I balance were intangible.
Others say: find someone nice.
But I lack credentials to satisfy. 
Sure, I save for building—but can’t buy
guys I deign to like.

Once, after unmasking, I exited
to moonlight in front; someone behind—
heard footsteps accelerate
in pursuit of my tips. His pacing dropped,
but I never stopped a life
of interminable racing—
when I’m not waiting.

Copyright © by Kevan Copeland



A froth or a slash?
From a flask,
foaming slaps
taste, splayed
off the tongue.

Sensation is searching
for shores
in the skull. Past flora
flickers a brain,
flashing the pan.

sizzling, thirst climbs
to press prickly lips—
gasping for water
in cacti kisses.

is vascular rapture:
sailing on blush. Waving
splinters the grin:

Copyright © by Kevan Copeland

As A Novelist

As A Novelist

I control words coerced into being
more than myself. A concatenation
of pages, books, brains: manipulation
is my expertise. I shape your seeing.

I appease inspiration with my clutch;
whether tomes, music, lives—I have a touch
of kleptomania. Reined in my fist:
the fluidity of a pugilist

Dancing in a pen. Personality
disorders, so my borderlines are kept
writing, as I create reality

Conforming to my vision: great. Except—
buried in my lather of character
is a girl, and I cannot extract her.

Copyright © by Kevan Copeland

Dissolving All Distance In A Single Sonnet


Dissolving All Distance In A Single Sonnet

From inside, I view, from behind, your body

On the balcony, your look enwrapped by city-span,
the rising CN Tower lights coveted by Brooklyn eyes.
We understand; my room and I invite you in:

I twist myself to tilt your sight, and spill my head across the ledge
and onto sky; then begins the body press, the lips to neck. Citizens within
our borders wish to mix; immigration laws do not exist

Between our kiss, or in my bed. Among the threading
in my sheets, the strands you leave are all I count. They recount
my fingers weaving to your head, and how I watched it facing

Out, in poignant glance. That locus, under microscope, could explode
to where, with such device, you search for me
upon the slide, scrutinize, then conclude: both man and place reciprocate.

Toronto wants you. So do I.

Copyright © by Kevan Copeland