Peter Campion Poems

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At first it's just a mist: a neural drizzle
priming the sense of summer dusk and ocean.
...

After the accident when we were
safe on the shoulder and she leaned against me
gripping our son as the cruiser
...

How clean
the thousand surfaces
rivers
...

Balconies and streams
of cars on the 101
the sour milk smell
...

He slides his tongue in her ear. That wet heat
cold at the tip. That shudder of another
melding with you, and you him—stippled, sweet.
...

Beyond my father's distance and beyond his father's.
Back a century. My great grandfather's desk
in Cincinnati. How he must have cherished
...

He stiffened a little on the treadmill
and gripped the handles while he tracked the screen.
The picture was a camera crew: their cameras
...

Shot from a helicopter over Cairo
our hotel pool would be a turquoise drop.
...

The shattered volumes of it: walls of blue
fluming as fast as winds. The sheer corrosive
cleanse of it: how insistently it sleeks
...

Glug then sluice for vowels.
Rock ladders for consonants.
Out of the mountain it curls
...