Caroline Kanner
The Springs
Did you notice the picture.
Yes I like it. It’s not
just one cow see it’s two.
It’s a small cow standing
on the back of a big cow.
I like the word flank. Well
the small cow is really
the size of the big cow.
The small cow is just really far away
see. And the steam in front
of them rises from the springs.
Yeah. The springs in the
winter. It will hail later.
Yes. Harder than I’ve ever seen.
There’s still that huge dent.
Yes. On the roof. What’s it like
for the cows. When it hails.
Does the hail make the cows
bleed. I think their hides
are pretty thick. The small cow
was just very far away
and aligned just so.
It’s nice to imagine. A cow
probably needs a break. Riding
on the back of another.
To the springs. The hail
just melted on them.
Pitch White
Impale the scene.
I mean empale. Powder
It down. Grope around
The mystery canyons
Between cushions.
Between days.
These days
Are the scene sucked
Into a rectangle.
Imagine—off:
Optimistic snowfield.
This is the pitch.
All the colors or none.
Caroline Kanner is a writer and teacher from California. She has poems in or forthcoming from Annulet, Denver Quarterly, Bat City Review, Peripheries, and Action, Spectacle, among others. She co-founded and edits Some Creek Press and co-hosts a reading series called Wind Sock in Los Angeles, all of the above with friends.
The Springs
Did you notice the picture.
Yes I like it. It’s not
just one cow see it’s two.
It’s a small cow standing
on the back of a big cow.
I like the word flank. Well
the small cow is really
the size of the big cow.
The small cow is just really far away
see. And the steam in front
of them rises from the springs.
Yeah. The springs in the
winter. It will hail later.
Yes. Harder than I’ve ever seen.
There’s still that huge dent.
Yes. On the roof. What’s it like
for the cows. When it hails.
Does the hail make the cows
bleed. I think their hides
are pretty thick. The small cow
was just very far away
and aligned just so.
It’s nice to imagine. A cow
probably needs a break. Riding
on the back of another.
To the springs. The hail
just melted on them.
Pitch White
Impale the scene.
I mean empale. Powder
It down. Grope around
The mystery canyons
Between cushions.
Between days.
These days
Are the scene sucked
Into a rectangle.
Imagine—off:
Optimistic snowfield.
This is the pitch.
All the colors or none.
Caroline Kanner is a writer and teacher from California. She has poems in or forthcoming from Annulet, Denver Quarterly, Bat City Review, Peripheries, and Action, Spectacle, among others. She co-founded and edits Some Creek Press and co-hosts a reading series called Wind Sock in Los Angeles, all of the above with friends.