Saturday, September 27, 2014


A buttercup bursts
in the field in which you sink,

the mud is quite remarkable:
It must have peat moss in it somewhere,

sweat and eucalyptus,
or the feeling of a friend returning home
on a night without moon.

You lip the word mouth…

from your mouth
fly tiny warblers,
their heads, the color of lemon rind,

their tails being tugged
by thin esophageal ropes.

Inside your wild head is a cartographer
aching to line the ground,

a fellow who reminds you
that the petals

belonging to the buttercup
have yet to reach the ground,

your teeth have at last turned to feathers.

About Seth Berg:
Seth Berg is a chainsaw-wielding wild man who digs tasty hallucinatory literature. His first book, Muted Lines From Someone Else's Memory was winner of Dark Sky Books 2009 book contest. Other poems and short fiction can be found in Connecticut Review, 13th Warrior Review, Spittoon Literary Review, BlazeVOX, Heavy Feather Literary Review, and Lake Effect, among others. Most recently, poems were anthologized in GTCPR Volume III and Daddy Cool. Berg is addicted to hot sauce and psychedelia. He lives in Minnesota with his two supernatural children, Oak and Sage, as well as his guardian snow leopard. He loves your face.

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