SWWIM sustains and celebrates women poets by connecting creatives across generations and by curating a living archive of contemporary poetry, while solidifying Miami as a nexus for the literary arts.
There are such hearts to remain Inside; I circle this knowing, connecting point to point, As direction accepts itself. I conduct this orchestra, see…whole Gaggles of violins or kazoos. We sit circular On our patch of grass hereafter. Random synthetic Synthesizer reduces us to giggles. I pass the salt shaker
To the guy sitting with himself on the ceiling. His shaking Opens him and opens sitting spherical. The vibratory remainders Move all of our fingers to holding. His synthesist Inclinations recline on all of these fold-up clouds. Point? Yes, or yes—many. Roundness sufficient to circulation Of the waking dream. We are all! Wholly
At the catered brunch on the most fragile landmass without holes. Salt shakers, tablecloths lower themselves to shake Above the table, then drop. The waiters are circumspect— In waiting only. We dish up our own. What remains Ends in the dog’s bowl. Nothing being lost. The remark pointed Learns pointless. And carries it everywhere. Synthesize
Your globe and share and please don’t push synergy. A few of us already folded our maps. We’re happy. Holistically Speaking, we can all hug if we hear the ground shake apart from itself—point, counterpoint. Point by point we compass encompassed. The Shakers were moved to shake. The Quakers made oatmeal and waited for speech. Speech remains Outlasting consciousness, translating each utterance. Listens beyond listening. Circles
When we land. Circles when we hover. I learn to circumambulate. I do that when I’m happy and never bored. I like synth With soul. To sweat over it with my careful heart and remain Inside conducting four-four time. Re-figuring the holes. I’d like to shake all the hands inside their shaking. The hands of musical time point
To enfolded petals and stars held buzzing in place, on point. The feast continues in the encirclement of circles. Laughter catches at us in losing nothing. The sound shakes Into the next shape: a deepening concentricity as safety. Whoever mans the synthesizer Probably laughs too. The map in my pocket isn’t whole. Not yet. But remains.
The circle arrived shaking. O synthesizing O synthesizing hole into whole. In pointlessness I hope we may remain.
Amy Poague lives in Iowa and holds an M.A. in Creative Writing from Eastern Michigan University. Her work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and has appeared in Figure 1, The Indianapolis Review, 8 Poems, Yes Poetry, Riggwelter Press, Juke Joint, The Mantle, Kissing Dynamite, and others. She can be found at amypoague.wordpress.com and on Twitter @PoagueAmy.
