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Poets Press

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The Fugitives:
Claire McGill
William Rockwood
Tyler Elkin
Billy Finn
Coyote Darling
Jordan Savera
Apollo Alexander
Jack Hamerstone
John Leslie Butchart

Grey Round Patterns
CatchEye / Fall 2022

Girlfriends - by Billy Finn
Jagged Morning - by Claire McGill
Joy at the Smallest Affection - Tyler Elkin
Fall - John Leslie Butchart



by Billy Finn

Another one
Bites the dust—

I’ll tell you how


She is living

In my regrets now

Beyond reach:

Her name is Kelly

And she can spit


Across the bar

Through the gap

In her front teeth.

That’s the thing

I liked most about her.


Before Kelly

There was Olivia

Believe it or not

She had olive skin

From Trinidad.

Velvet skin, velvet

Hands, velvet


I fell asleep

Inside her

Velvet cocoon

And I’m afraid

I bored her

To death.


Now a new girl

A wild coyote

Who has already

Consumed me.

She has her teeth

In my neck


Shaking my head

Fangs so deep

Blood so profuse

I’m painted red

Down to my toes

And loving

Every minute

Of mutilation.


I’m wrong, I know

To assume a girl

Exists somewhere

Out there

Who can whisk up

The flavor of sure love

As if desire could stay



That’s foolish &

sadly romantic.

But how does a man

Change the chemistry

That keeps him alive?


Will there be one

Who goes to the end with me?

One who conquers death

By living beyond

My expectations

By forgiving me

Holding fast

To her own ideas

Of what love is

With a well of life

So deep and fresh

I’ll never die of thirst

Or doubt.


A friend who happens

To be a woman, a girl

Who happens to be

A child of God.

Designed for more

Than words can say.

Because she and I 

Will know

Oceans and mountains

And cities where the best

Cafes hide, and movies

We watch together

In perfect silence.

Like doves 

we will find joy

Simply chasing

The future.

(Billy Finn is a Fugitive Poet who enjoys working in obscurity doing imaginary things.}


by Claire McGill

I crawled out

Of my ciccada husk

Last night and danced

Away the darkness.

I boogied my butt off 

Swirling in the light.

Oh how sore I am

With happiness

To be free

From what I was


Joy at the Smallest Affection

I understand you’ll never understand

why you wallow in the mire of your self

for the love you need you do not seek

and the ice around your heart is deep.


Hear us barking now in the middle of the night?


Hear us snarling at the squirrels on television?


Poets and priests are man’s best friends

                           yet you treat us like dogs


Just for living truthfully.


There is no power, no light, only barking.

You can’t understand how we live

by instinct, how we know the way home.

Until you bury is in the backyard, we give


Like slaves, we howl at the moon

And curl on the stoops of churches.


Every dog senses man is doomed

feels sadness about your crimes

and joy at the smallest affection.

by Tyler Elkin
Golden Leaves


       by John Leslie Butchart


In this careless season
our cries become songs.

Earth herself is yeilding up

herself in a cry of color.

This golden evening

people somewhere
talking, a fragile noise
of wind in leaves.
As I cross the campus
each footstep arouses
love, latent, imaginary.

From this distance,
the ballet of women

laughing, arm-in-arm
is the impulse of poetry
a lonesome lullaby
easily forgotten
lost on the air
like breath.
If you listen closely
you will know
it is the sound
of a man’s heart
breaking open.

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