TWO POEMS BY TIM BOTTA
FILTER
She kisses a cinnamon filter,
vanilla vapor hovers over the pond. Her circuit
finch, her eglantine wrist. And the frisson
provider in his vaporetto,
science-fiction torch song. So you want to
be a lobe of saltpeter. Filthier
cipher, the crushed red velvet falls,
she says, "The ichor stand is closed."
BIOLUMINESCENCE
He comes on decent, avails of matte
seed beads. A seed cask seeks tame ax. Leaf kite.
Vast revalue (Varathane Renewal). Bride's
emergency kit: world age, mute lodge (mystos),
old/new clavicle peg, eerie tinsel,
assemblage, twill tape, the hill tradition,
bioluminescence. Peak angel, tin
self. Arsenic servant, unravel this mist.
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Tim Botta's work has appeared in Gutcult, Shampoo,
Unpleasant Event Schedule, and
Word For/ Word.
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