Wednesday 20 April 2016

3 Poems by Heikki Huotari


When taste buds open in the winter morning of the mouth, the ultraviolets are pollinated
by the scintillating fog of ice, the final resting place of light, so hide your gun behind
a plaster patch (or in the flattened grass beside a moonlit path of broken glass) and when
you need it simply punch a new hole in the wall. 


When clowns collide the comical atomic particles fly off in all directions and the universe
is largely laughing matter. Guess which shoe the tooth is in, which tooth is in the shoe
and which is tooth and which is shoe and spin your web of ethics. Close your eyes and feel
the dented fender. 


Between me and TV I have seen the two of you and risen from the bed of nails and trod
the trails of glowing coals, some pain receptors reaching for my skin like fingers
for the ice. There is no better light. 


Heikki Huotari is a retired professor of mathematics. In a past century, he attended a one-room country school and spent summers on a forest-fire lookout tower. His poems have appeared in several journals, including Poetry Northwest and Crazyhorse. A chapbook is forthcoming from Finishing Line Press. 

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