by Keep This Bag Away From Children


I have a soft blue book with a foreign name on it

which I sometimes stare at, leaning against a book called Words

of an earlier publishing date

and including,

almost surreally, I thought while drunk,

the name “Margaret Pratt”

inside of the cover.


The foreign-authored book has never been opened

except when I received it from a bookstore

using Amazon as a proxy.

I selected expedited shipping.

When the UPS driver came he gave my dog

a little celestial object from his pocket

as hair fell forward onto his eyelids.

I have money to waste, I told him.





the pyrenean ibex spoke of its lung defects

to work without regret

thank you for your prompt answer

get at me about drinking later


a kung fu gardener bathed in fragrant hills

his breast caked with papaya

i’m unable to see you in the current

please use your outside voice


missing was a picture of cassius, trying to explain a story, hands upturned

and a hispanic quartet

playing twenty feet behind my small dynamic loudspeakers

we perfected tricks today including ‘sit’


lit fireworks afford a transfer of boredom to money

cassius mostly listened to ‘garage rock’


a chilly brain

the text just changed its dimension

can you talk more about your despondency

can you consider again your goldfish in fragrant hills


existence is a futon

its diagram is unadorned

if you take time to read it you’ve wasted your time




Andrew Colville (b. 1993) is a poet and student. He lives in Chicago with his girlfriend and dog.