the middle of classes by Keith Nunes

he’s running wildly among the weeding grasses of the frontal lobe, one minute perched on the Jericho wall then tumbling in a roll to the pins of bowling ball alleys lining the middle of classes, this heavily forested man with his singular language is dragging lone-wolf sorrows in a birthing sack, he howls over his laid-bare aching back with his holocaust harmonies, the kids with their trinket noses and glittering cheeks do the drive-through breeze-by unbothered, absorbing themselves unto themselves while they troll-text as he cuts himself into ribbons and drifts back toward the echoes of himself when he was who they are and he was unable to warn himself

Keith Nunes (New Zealand) lives beside Lake Rotoma where the two of them undertake a great deal of reflecting. He’s had works published around the globe, has placed in competitions and was a Pushcart Prize nominee. His book of poetry/short fiction, catching a ride on a paradox, sells.