Hog lard and turpentine for the mosquitos plus others for the smell.
I’ve hated that creek since I was three apples high. It’s incapable.
Suspension bridges, fourth century. Every mountain wants to be flat.
The bones of her bird may kick into dance when it floods.
Out of the unworlding peatblack dripstone, you would think a hammer but
In our case nobody would slow down or look at us. An inch a year.
Bred for it: a piece of corn on the cob abandoned on the railroad tracks.
The spring wants the steepest, weakest of shingle, vowel.
A crater has no suffix. In a single syllable, it bullfrogs black out of black.
A twig of bird spine pricks the soft silt bottom, and names bud across our
throats.
Derek Thomas Dew's work has appeared in The Curator, Hawaii Pacific Review, Dead and Undead Poems: Zombies, Ghosts, Vampires and Devils (Everyman Press), Not a Drop and Noble Dissent (Beautiful Dragons Press). He was awarded a 2017 Omnidawn workshop scholarship, and his manuscript Almond Psalm was a semi-finalist for the Word Works Washington Prize and the Brittingham Prize.