The liminal reaches its end in a fog sarcophagus. A coughing

a coughing frog it was funny until

he fell dark and drunk on a fog bank leaving a frog bar

the lighthouse on the rocks illuminated

hitch, rail, and scratchpost.


Dark and drunk, the snow was a march of ants

on a black field

roaring on the television screen. The field was afoot

and underfoot

in the process of happening and fed the swallow worms.


The chemical happenstance of developed film

in a dark room

shed an untoward light

upon a dark subject. Who was

the subject of a documentary on fruit flies? 

Who killed frog? Who contaminates

an already viral crime scene?

…for he who multiplies by two shall be a remainder.

and only he who believes in nothing shall bear witness

and only he who whitewalls the fence shall find commerce

and only he who reveals an arc will be found

            a wife from the desert and people like the stars.


I learn from watching; it can be unlearned

the worms were in us, but not a part. Our cat skins stalk

and stalk the rails, the haul, the ark. The owl coasts the great shoals

and shallows and pecks


and pecks at the membrane of wind and driftwood

covered with aphids decays into pulp.


The swallow, dark and drunk,

gorgeous as a talking horse

gorged and gorged in feathered violence

due unto the other

the other, unspoken of, goliath.

Daniel Biegelson was born and raised in New Jersey. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Meridian and Denver Quarterly. He holds an MFA from the University of Montana,  and currently lives and works in Easthampton, MA.