» Poetry


Hairpins on the vanity—

I’ve lost count.


Fellow suburbanites,

the pedestrians outpace the growing


traffic, hair hovers above cul-de-sacs

like tentacles. Go out,


get stung. Letting the touching

do its work, I venture into


wires. I feel like a lover.

I feel sorry that sex


rarely happens in public.

Not that I’d be looking for it,


only stumble upon a couple

of fellow loners trying


to prove to their neighbors

they aren’t lonely.


No other way to convince

the jury, unless


a man grabs a gun

to blast billions of bullets,


and satisfies himself

that he can live without


Homo sapiens.

Nearby, imperious crows line up


on power lines. Momentary silence

before their firing squad of gazes—


spare me—I’ll return home—

the hair—accidental curios


Steven Chung

Steven Chung splits his time between the San Francisco Bay Area and Vermont. His poems appear or are forthcoming in FIELD, Indiana Review Online, Passages North, Rattle, and Redivider.