Brett Price

In the overheard voice’s quiver


a dozen arrows


Are you a transistor?


I am elements of that


bewildered rectifier


I            infinite ellipsis      care to

the shareholder



A large, beautiful room, rich and picturesque


the wind asks

and from the trees

a slow yellow downpour

of leaves

vanish and am

           a river


receiver of incandescent estuaries


“water splits water”


tortillas heavenly sent


When the rain stops I

see the small stream

quietly weaving light

toward the sewer


and in the quick varieties of that gleam

undulate gracefully, my pupils.