Poetry by Connor Fisher

It’s all environment. Trees wrap around the cambium layer. Limestone
wears to clay after hydrolysis decades.  

Plastics gel up a continent. The turtles that quaver there. Some trees
are an argument. Oil balls under us. 

Boxwoods grow together with husks of burned-out
tires. There’s a mound of loose dirt, a mouth with 
the unspoken word inside.  

Nature perches on the antique shelf. Grass stalks are 
bundled insect legs. Soft fallings
clump in the distance and I see faint outlines
in the smog. Hard-core water lilies, these are 

ghouls, these territories grow marsh grass. 
The threat landscape shimmers.

Connor Fisher is the author of the chapbooks The Hinge (Epigraph Magazine, 2018) and Speculative Geography (Greying Ghost Press, forthcoming 2020). He has an MFA from the University of Colorado at Boulder and a Ph.D. in Creative Writing and English from the University of Georgia. His poetry and reviews have appeared or are forthcoming in Typo, the Colorado Review, Tammy, Posit, Cloud Rodeo, and the Denver Quarterly.

Photo by Brian Yurasits on Unsplash