Matt Mauch

Dorothy of Kansas went to several spectacular places under the assistance of colors and wind is the kind of map we need

Foretold is that the monster who will eat us is the one we paint with the
colors of night, on the night itself, at night, under what seems

to be the lazy eye of the moon. The monsters who will eat us

get paid at their day jobs to clandestinely place brushes and paints in our
paths like they’re pretty flowers

so abundant who’ll notice one missing.

The disclaimer and asterisk aren’t telling us everything they know, is the
feeling I get.

What the wooden hand says is I’m tall enough to ride the ride. The
disclaimer notes that I may not return. The asterisk indicates

that I may, instead, go to.
I went looking for some string. I was ready to stuff myself

Thanksgiving full eating two cans of soup

so we could use the string and cans to talk intimately via primitive
telephone, which is when the shade was pulled

either by you or by operatives sensing
how close we were to being even closer still,

afraid of the power we’d have.

Now I’m not sure whose voice I’m hearing, but it’s ceremonial and tinny,
like a voice on an old radio show,

like it’s you but your can is far far away as the kite
I’ve attached rolls and rolls of string to, and can’t see anymore,

but know it’s there. Feel for yourself the tension the line.