Alexander Chisum
An abyss
widens: sleep:
o island
o island of the third, fabular
eyelid.
Human, there is a machine called seed.
Human, there is an instrument called tuba.
Upright in the cherry
orchard, gigantic
snail of wet brass. Un-
musicked, slithered up
from a child’s dream.
The tuba sleeps.
Golden trilobite, mouthpool
filling up with rain.
The seed sleeps.
Within the seed:
pimpled skin of future’s
bark;
ring by ring of rippled whiteness, year by year the eon spokes;
cog of root and bough;
the tic-
and-whir of leaves in wind. Each
a somnambular mechanism,
each.
Sleep.
In dream gristle,
the gnarled pumpkin innards
of moon-
glow,      sleep.
Human, there is a machine called cherry tree,
rising from a tuba’s throat.
O
ferocious growth!
The tuba’s brass
is torn.
The horn
it does
awaken.
Alexander Chisum, despite being born and raised in a small town near Reno, Nevada, is terrible at gambling. He blames his lack of blackjack skills on ineptitude rather than misfortune, however, as his good luck is exhibited by his presence in the Creative Writing Program at the University of Alabama, where he is currently pursuing an MFA. His work can be found or is forthcoming in Nashville Review, Arsenic Lobster, Bestoned, and elsewhere.