Julia Cohen

A Bright Wire Flown


I stemmed the verge

of your night-garden:


Whatever’s real dies

& mitigates the quantity


I unhooked the flower


Up up up      up

There you go











What Was Record


I miss bees in winter


Tuft, a treetop pushing

against the ceiling


Some say nothing

can mount the sky


A magnet under the ice

pulls the skater

toward me


I’m filled

with invisible arrows

& ice & ice


No buzz


A box is

human, a human



The restness I compass

I forgive

the nuisance camera


Some say skin—

having done it