Three Poems

Logan Fry





Waft final, bleak from sculpting a model, I add up all the nuance around me,

in total it so amounts to the winks a flaccid owl doles out. I love it. It is great.


Soon hair let down will feed the certain fire. Boring notes burn all the nicer

the boringer, so he got oily, slathered with lore he’d hewn, for tires love fire



completely, inside a left sandwich bag, having smeared goodly my hands to


get rid of it, your answers in sequence await but they’re lonely—by burning,

made lonelier. An alley in this city is perpetually aflame. I know it’s lame, to


say so. Acceptance can’t clip

terror free


from the banality that’s binding it. I’m told that is the whole point, of terror,

which we want. Now— listen— you can’t touch the car door here or here or


there, here’s OK, here is better, your experience is pleasure creeping nearer

when your back is turned. I’m only here to help. Flowers gouge out my eyes


because I let them. I can’t decide

if I let them


because I want them to or want merely to accept it. If one were to construct

a scale model of scope it would need to be larger for sure. The type of tower


you’re into is bleak. You’re in it, gazing so, glancing about, regarding, down

like so, I look up there, where you are at, peering up, grinning, up, searching.










I log a curt allowance skimming lean

from later-ons begun

in feal and therein ended.

Coming-to’s an end again.

Gives’ plum jus belies a loading pond.

Just prove that man’s not.

Just prove that one man’s not evil.


We want to go from the evidence back to him.











Though perhaps what has fallen far enough past may bow

into a note, a score totes no sound. Sequence is what gets found.


Counting builds. The numerals that cushion plant flesh climb

the Acropolis. Atop are patient theses.


Figurative singing, who harps contends that

each pluck severs credos. It is how lungs lift.


How pliant may a will become and who is it

who slathers grease on wounds who earns this job who stomps


figs soft in that arena dirt who evicts fallow the busts there who

dips his pail in horror’s runoff to not slosh the pillage home tell


me who. One who tours

history to sniff out edicts exits trailing scalps glued to his boot.


In frocks and dowdy on couches, repetition paws its snack bowl.

So bronzing melts duration. As digits ticker by on starchy peaks.









LOGAN FRY lives in Austin, Texas, edits Flag + Void, and has published poetry in Fence, Prelude, New American Writing, Boston Review, and Best American Experimental Writing.