Two Poems by Patrick Bower


A Brindle Afghan disappears,

if she can manage to be still,


before a backdrop of shrubbery

like triggerfish into the sargassum


a jaguar into the understory

or a human into a plaza,


where hundreds are dancing,

swaying together or apart,


like the tentacles of a sea anemone

hypnotic, concealing harpoons.


photo of sea anemone

“deep sea anemone” (image via Flickr user torbakhopper)


Water Under the Bridge

Flat clouds of silver

iodine amalgam,



sky and cable,


arch and rung,

buoyant atop river water,


the solutions we mix

beneath bridges,


the jumper’s illusion:

that the fall will


not kill him, only

open up heaven.

Patrick Bower lives in New York City, where he writes copy for a living. His poems have appeared in Wu Wei Fashion Mag, The Corner Club Press, 805 Lit, Sheila-Na-Gig,, and New York Dreaming.