Matthew Cook
An Appetite for Distances
Let’s talk about dawn,
hardly
a state,
though foggy territory
without coffee.
To understand this feeling
is to see part
of the rock in the palm
hiding the bruise it leaves.
The morning air
shines slick as china saucers.
Location is a relationship,
an appetite
for distances. Someone
plays a saxophone
in the parking structure.
The music takes risks,
its art so breathless
commuters grab for air
in wake of departing trains.
The music ends in lullaby—
Soft, now, the windows must
be dreaming. Let them finish.
Matthew Cook’s poems have appeared in Muzzle, HocTok, Assaracus, Penumbra, The Squaw Valley Review, Cactus Heart, and Howlarium, among others. He was awarded the Stewart Prize for his creative writing while earning his BA in Literature and Writing at the University of California, San Diego. He holds an MFA from the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, where he was both a Maytag Fellow and an Alberta Kelly Fellow in poetry. Matthew works as a researcher and lives in Eugene, Oregon. Please find him at matthew-cook.org