Allyssa Wolf
M, The Dancer
New Poems From the USA

Disappear. Is this. A wet wing. Working. In illustrated green. Of
German hills. Its speckles just. A jasmine torn from cold jazz. Is
this. An old tree twisting. Or taken there. Some tender thing. Just.
Twisting. Just. Twisting the night away.

To find a way. Forgetting just. Pink clouds fall from their mouths.
Pink skin. Pink. It’s there. From the mouths of caves.

A real show. Its rows and rows like antique teeth. Turning just.
Twisting just.


Walk around the roses. Are these roses. What a rose.
Let’s walk.
Around the roses. Red darling. In roses
rising. As red a skull. Around the roses. Are
these roses. The roses walk.

the world
to tempt the thief
inside a glass ball.

To tell the truth.

(That Thanksgiving I made a soup from instant potatoes. I think
I had. Instant heaven. Rooms grave and grainy. I tried hard. Not
to bump into any of her. Leftover ghosts.


As to mourn for the moon. Is an automatic mourning. As if the moon folds from the face. What is the nausea of creation. What may fly against. In other words. A flat, medieval backdrop.

Which is what. To dream it dreams. Red birds to flick across the white. O. That’s what they. How they. Say. What wings. What eye. What shadows shaking in the corners. There.

(Or it’s a pattern, watching birds. Of knowing every worm by heart.


A lot of the dolls. Who had collected my life. Lines and
lines of them seeming. Saying something. In the dent.

Hands sewn to their mouths. Mouths sewn to a hunger.
There had to be many. Who collected their hands.

Who had collected himself. His hands without hands. To
hang up the hunger. Who collected my life.

     Whereupon I gilded
     new pea-buttons with bronze strongly smelling of

     This took away the rats’ appetite.

     This was how it happened.

   (The room was. He showed me his collection of
   religious idols that were shaped like genitalia.
   Then we went through a deep blue corridor,
   where he kept his most precious painting.
   A girl holding a bear in a butcher shop.


What life was a life. Who a surface could save. To
become. In a world. Of a world. Obsolescence.

A singing creature, by trade. Not singing. Out at all.

By trade. Out as creatures. By trade. Obsolescence.

Nor salvation. Choosing what. Comes the black,
muscled cat.

               Mingled with colours of every kind.

                    No, they didn’t miss it.

                       They couldn’t reach it.

(It was the same way with breeding animals. The
more well-bred they are. The more cross-eyed,
and occasionally handicapped. They become.


Wild angels will go. Making wings hang like words. Here there are. No weddings. No guests. Walk with them. Walk with them these little streets. To go speechless. As a cheap glow. Or as a well-worn throat. These wild angels. New bones. Dirt a stunt-man for truth. To see them. What is called. The working youth. The fucking youth. From time. To time.

Times. Commission no saint. What is called. The fucking you. The working you. To paint out the eyes. Painting. Out of the dirt and the pink.

A little street for wild angels. Wild angels to go.