Logan Fry


Wood bolt, gustavo
The powderkeg, the coyote
Kneads air where cliff’d left.
               When u gush
               diamonds seize up
               underfoot, that Afric feeling
The Dutch can’t shake’s
Gonna haunt me, the rest of, my life.

Were it alloys, summer.

Beef stick— ur presst flesh medical—
They’d had a ball
And Austen’s girls
Had still-wet dresses.
Saying possum
Can’t ketchem
This morn.

Newish Bild of Vietnam

The takes were mild garberdeen,
The saunas raising children
In their image, which is mild, which
Senators report as swooning
When they learn it's pathos in those caves.

Logan Fry lives in Austin, TX and edits Flag + Void with Matthew Moore. He is a reviewer for The Volta 365, and his poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in journals including Boston Review, Denver Quarterly; Forklift, Ohio; Columbia Poetry Review; The Cultural Society; Dear Sir,; and Best American Experimental Writing 2014.