Orbit if you follow, if you quit
the rail of Cassiopeia.

Point the toe if you flow
backward from the altar.

Be appointed dirt to an Easter scene,
breathe as low
as an overbearing ceiling.


The ankles for the trees,
the kestrel square and trim,
as a kestrel is begotten
and bent inward from the rim.


A microscope slide of masonry
plied with ocular fluid,
brought to bay where curve

and mass [resist]
thrown up street
corners that cannot resist

a solitary lamp post,
in love with its panes
of underwater light, its chevrons

of slowness, cowshit
and paired shoes.
Meetings take care of themselves.


The minotaur in the thump
of 4, the minotaur
who licks the longish bones
for water, lives

in dread of her unseen spoil.
The minotaur at 4.35, grazing
the curve, ducking
by rote where the low roof

wears white, fears
the undigested sight,
the eaten figure
of the torchlit king.

The minotaur at 4.45 prolongs
the longish, bony night
turning with her toe
the half-imagined

[charnel pile].

The minotaur at 5 reloads
the kestrel’s Easter
gamefaqs guide.


It is best to
approach right after an attack

then back off, a kind of

Try running around
a structure.

The secrets aren’t
listed and neither

are the monsters, just the tip


Edwin Evans-Thirlwell versifies solar systems and writes about videogames, beasts and consumption. He has also been published in Antiphon, SHARKPACK and Zoomorphic.

Cover photo credit: Photo by Chua Bing Quan on Unsplash