Nick Twemlow

Whose Hand Jiggles the Nerve?
New Poems From the USA


There was once lapse – no –
a deer sitting upright
on the rock shelf.
Spiders skitter off
a man picking a bone
clean. There was once
lapse – ? – job vacancies
crowded out the news
of the wars. Steering
a hearse around the corner
of every error
in judgment. There was
once               lapse –
that brief time when
objects tended to their own
representation – killing
the thrill of seeing yourself
get in bed with a noun
you slap a different
face on each night.