Poems
For Galen
Egg whites, clear as glass, honey, honey, and its tortoise trickle. This poultice of potential pour on linen wraps to shell burnt, or cracked, or torn skin. Sessile, motile, sessile, mute, materia medica rage at truth. The hens about the henhouse, the stock clerks of the hive, watch Galen the delayer spend life to stretch out lives. Motile, sessile, motile, stiff materia medica pickpocket death. Leg dragging soldiers, infants at rest, the burned, and the crushed, and those gasping for breath, still pray to old Galen for more of what’s spent.
Dylan Rogers is reading, or writing, somewhere quiet in the Midwestern United States.