The multirainbows of the circle
Clouds like white cups above
          the unfolding
                                  flowers, the rage
       of the circle, as it leans there
in the wall’s arm, the river of pillbugs
               to Nippur, to canyon-land
   and plains a torn-open mouth
 yellow stone mouth to
                              gravel
                              hills
                              + poppies (for the CIA)
         / that guy in the cargo shorts
           waving us in
     ^cave gods swarm the burning
                   animal, its smoke, nourishment^
in the circle there is
a gun
…
in the beef stacked
there is a gun in the
netflix binged there is
a gun in the victorian
architecture there is a
gun in this just ineffable
sense of rightness of
place of coast of stars of
america of just enjoy it
there is a gun → HIS gun
           and an emotional therapist, lonely huge and
           sweating, blue
           frocked, at a tiny
           door, the one that goes inside, the only one

*

Hunter Gagnon is a writer of poetry and experimental fiction. His work has appeared in Joyland, 7×7.LA, Cabildo Quarterly and elsewhere. He is the founder and editor-in-chief of Slouching Beast Journal.  He lives in Kennebunk, Maine with his partner and two dogs.