Dan Gutstein



blurry. The pattern,
as opposed to the rain,
off schedule. Autos,
the entire industry of
white noise, after noon.
“Fuck of a walk is that?”

A wilderness of bells
quarter past an empty lot.
Gray (exhaust) through
gray (ceiling.) Wire: Or,
what vanishes but never
meets. State Street &

the moon squirts out of
a blurry lens. The skin,
the spine of an elm, pine,
ash. Dwell in tincture,
tint. Dwell in the color
of voice, mural, thirds.

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Daniel Gutstein works at the Maryland Institute College of Art (aka MICA) in Baltimore, and George Washington University, in D.C. His writings have appeared in more than four-dozen publications, including Best American Poetry. A first collection is forthcoming from Edge Books.  

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