Logan Fry

Local gallons burst upon you. It’s why
you get paid.
Handsomely. So buck
up, knock it
off, you’re a
pro. Awash in lesions,

undoing quotas
that tessellate it, mossy,
breathing thru a gauze,
commas reach toward a,
closure they don’t grasp,
which is, that, money, virtual is.

Museum instincts bathe
there’s a gesture,
tokens pour forth —did
you see that? You’ll take
It? I will. I... I’ll take two.
Good forgery that opens leave, a hero

called home and brings
its phantom gusto, its blunting limbs
pile upon
someone’s wobbly altar,
afar, fiery,
bland as data half as sad.

I started work in the employ of a grocer
and a wine merchant.