by Karla Korman


over blackened rivers in the
seamless tile floor; the
sand-hewn edges
where the last ice-crumpled
water darkened air, though

once, it opened;
the plush volume of
each thread-fine wall seam,
nitrogen pushing through
every angled plane of hair;

the floating world
slipped when
cracking under full ice-tread,
thin watered particles abound,
in strata over concrete

egg-shelled, the thin
resilient crack, the
deep space between beats
lost grip, fell through

the floating world takes thirst, the
bending to the river of honey
when it lowers from the mouth

I thought it would taste like
the dry filtered ocean, by
the length of water left
on clothes and skin, while
unpacking hard-shelled
wooden drawers, or by
the length of smoke imbedded
after washing, smoke-salt
thickened hair

but fibres of night smoke
bend to lodge in the
daytime lungs;
sooner or later.

turn the lights
down to do this,
you can’t see the
floating world in the day

Karla Korman

KARLA KORMAN is a professional designer who writes poetry and fiction in Winnipeg, MB.  Her writing is informed by architectural theories of volume and space, and the tactile experiences of design. Her poetry has  appeared  in The Dalhousie Review, CV2, and Prairie Fire.

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