Tyler Enfield is the author of Wrush (Greenleaf Book Group) 2010. His awards include the Writers' Federation Of New Brunswick Literary Prize, the New Times Fiction Prize, and others. Work has appeared or is forthcoming in Florida Review, Nashwaak Review, Drunken Boat, Gargoyle, Grain, and elsewhere.

Hanoi

Hanoi is its own mango. It is a partridge in the throat. It is a partridge exploding in your hand. It is two red phones, their hard small heads, a thousand miles apart, clicking together like pool-balls over scarred green felt, cigarette burns, are those chalk stains? It is a comma. Not a vanquished word. It is either a dropped piano or a newt. It is whatever bees in their frenzy cannot live without. It is exhale, and cloud. Lips pressed against glass. A smothered vowel lingering after you.

______________________________________________________________________________
Something Matters

If this white space in the floor were made of light, why dream in wire? There are wetter places to cry. I don’t know which wind knew you first, but there is only one cut. It is the will that binds. Several odd pieces make right. This cord of plaster, it is white as china.

It has never known gold or tea. Have a care, sing back your razor. Hum a white line to the sea.