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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