By Kevin Hegyi
The Slow Wave from Men in Speedboats
from a quarter mile
you can feel his grin
shimmer
it’s the same kind of grin
worn by the same kind of man
who drives corvettes
the same kind of grin
worn in the same kind of way
as if showcased in every
speedboat parade
terrified
he runs from skinny dippers
of skin and smiling faces
and terrified
he runs from scarlet lips
asking him everything
about his finances
Los Osos Valley Road
The rainbow death
of the squall
lets
suckling bugs
resume
their dreams
of necks
and wine
and timid rodents
resume
their gaze
through wet
dripping
wisteria
and
to murders of crows
now disturbed
the redtail screams
it’s latest prize
and against
the fading mauve
of evening
the vultures
are slow
to dry
hoodless
they sag
and sag
Cross Country Waffle Iron
underneath the seat
of my friends old ford
lives a heavy
aged
waffle iron
he uses it
to press flowers
on his ways
across America
when I called him last
he had found
roses in New York
dogwoods in the Carolinas
goldenrods in Kentucky
laurels in Connecticut
camellias in Alabama
blue bonnets in Texas
and Syringas in Idaho
he said that when he pressed them
they all got stuck
in the grooves
of the iron
so all his flowers
were pressed there
instead
one
on top
or next to
or around
the other
when he arrived
in South Dakota
he said
he couldn’t find much
and instead
tied a dead
sunflower
about his neck
and drove on
hoping to find some columbines
laughing with their tongues
exposed
Kevin Hegyi is a musician and writer residing in Nashville, TN. His work focuses on illuminating moments of hesitation, leaning into curiosity, and preserving the seemingly mundane acts of aerial, terrestrial, and arboreal inhabitants.
High Horse 