Two Poems by Dyl Carpenter


Cinquains for Pinnochio

Not just
Gepetto, it
turns out most grey geezers
can snap and stun dead wood to life.
And plus,

not just
Pinnochio,
loads of the long-nosed keep
singing, ‘I’m going to be a
real boy!’

The vast
majority
stay toys. Who knows why. Just
this past Tuesday, while eating my
eggs and

bacon,
I read a bit
in the Times about one
of these very Gepetto-types
who—in

error—
mistakenly
snapped at The Great Wave
Off Kanagawa
and was washed
away.

We must
be careful what
we give life to with our
voodoo. The same goes for what we
covet.


East Ann. St.

For Ω.S.

& when the moment split
There in the violet dusk
Of mid-summer
They were sitting on the porch,
Bare feet up on the railing,
Smoking & watching

The scene uncurl in grainy film:
The crickets were ringing like cell phones
Under cushions;
Greasy crows on electric wires
Cleaned their wings & the old bones
Of the sole

Black gum tree on the street
Remembered how to quiver
Like pretty words
In the breeze slitting through its afro
Of scarlet leaves. Soon enough
Night would beat

All the crows invisible
& twilight would web the sky
With nerve-endings.
Their Cigarettes—pupils gone umbral—
Would fizzle too as the street lamps
Stuttered on.

But they were more than asymptotes.
The cigarettes burned; they drew
In smoke
Tight before they let it go
In puffs of cirri sheared & this
Was about more

Than soon enough. There on the porch
That June dusk must have felt
Nailed in place
As they, still with gaze,
Suddenly forgot the way
A nail rusts.



Dyl Carpenter is the co-editor of Starover Blue Review. His poems have been printed in Leviathan Magazine and he’s a full time student, currently living in Colorado Springs.