Julie Doxsee


A thickening: It is full of cups and stops a cup. It has long fingers, unable to make bones. It debates while kindness droops. It walks a dog while people stare. It loses car keys. It hits the ceiling with its head. It is full and biteable. It whelms, it wells. It curls over with magnet eyes.

An expectation: It is fermented. It is a dry candle and a spill of roast fish. It howls and chokes on spit. It sleeps and forgets easily and is trapped in a snow bank. It has money and no pockets. It screams when a taxi whizzes. It splashes and turns toward knolls. It forgets.

A vacancy: It hates a refrigerator full of cheap beer. It hates rice. It is a saucepan with beads of water. It is a TV show on a stilted TV. It is a buried glance dumped onto the carpet. It is an arm span, a finger span, a running with air.

An until: It is a native in the jail. It is a death. It is a future and a bigfoot. It is branded on the flank. Mountains hang from above. It grows mold to be eaten, then has no mold at all. It has a heartbeat, but no warm head to pat. It is a thick temple of clichés and touches, but goes away untouched.

A generation: It is five spaceships in the noon light. It had lunch with Cher once. Thee Cher. It is a study of ice cubes and cold fusion. It wears only beige. It is too loud and rides a broken bicycle. Suddenly it says “fuck” at the same time each evening. It sips and clicks through a filmstrip.

A turmoil: It is a small place in the wall in which aphids hide. It is a notch, but you shouldn’t poke it. It is a chemical & grows nice tomatoes. It is a buzzing. It forgets to button up and makes off with a faux silk tapestry. It is a fisherwoman.

An hour: It is tidy with stringy legs. It tastes like a twisted lime, not a dried lime. It is a grandfather minding the chicken coop. It is saggy — tidy and saggy both! It is a barbell floating in the harbor. It eats sardines, nothing expensive.