Ben Doyle Poems

In the middle of every field,
obscured from the side by grass
or cornhusks, is a clearing where
she works burying swans alive
...

The tug on my arm but soon spread
Perhaps now they could prove me there.

I've been watching the sky closely & for some time,
...

Lick the lights. Everyone
says that here. Sometimes
they'll call a spade a shovel,
hollowing half a hole,
...