Three Poems by Trevor Owen Jones

Trevor Owen Jones is a librarian in California. He is on X at @badlandsjournal, and more poetry from The Feedsack is here.

An Ill-Struck Lapse of Severed Lightning

Serving to placate what’s waiting in the wings–
and reworking my sense of being born–
neutrinos fall through the earth
and buddhas’ve postponed
the terminal reckoning for the sake of
every vital current charged in megafauna,
gnat and shrimp alike–
reworking this into a private pangea,
and if not kenning the required faculty
of wonder in the meantime, at least
pausing to catch my breath.

---

Slough Slog

The gutter gains an acre
foot by foot, slicing
through the mud and mangrove
in this this evergreen outback,
here we don’t walk on water
we slog through it:
God is a swamp.

---

Peacocks at the Left Hand of Death and Time

The peacocks cry out in pain
As red dusk settles
It’s murder-hue –
The occult-eyed woman stares
At succeeding infinite reflections in
Her vanities, the sweet
Fountain drones its memento-mori:
At this witching minute, dark synchronicity of a
A hit-and-run catches
Death hanging anonymous
At 7 in the evening. Tarot-faced
Lust, and reminders riddled and
Riddled. The corpse is someone's
Mother, lady of the
Obscurer Flowers.