11 | valerie witte

from “a game of correspondence”


an arrangement of partners and birdsongs the unintended playing of nocturnal birdsongs heard in a succession of hearts without a charge. cells, vessels, some small animal organs steeped.


in a deep sleep: an array of improbable phenomena. based in a locale where the most prominent utterance is please. a pleading syllable. have we any design to defy the system. a way in writing or brought together in orchestrations as levitation, telekinesis, enclosed bodies such as fjords. rendered unconscious until a harmonica un


attended to a gravity I doubt I’ll find online but how you love songbirds drunken.


between confused and content arrayed across a sky


a divide suggests gapping. (I just haven’t attached.) she responds to his presence best in photographs of dark places, gardens of auras and bone frequencies sound


the mind’s ability to fend off loneliness until such repairs are possible. when freezing a violent & unsavory operation on biological systems. what happens to salt in a body preserved. (I could not get this question out of my mind.) sills shallow at the entrance turned stagnant, standing


water. she just hasn’t attached. as organs housed in the material world when two metallic chambers carry an assortment of auras and bones. as one might a current of cold


air. assessment of such cargo restricted due to fear of incarceration. revival or electrical

shortage often a matter of vocal chords. what is AUTOMATIC WRITING. a pen recording tendencies, form a council of ambivalents. (why are you still here.) (why are you ignoring me.)


she’d prefer a little less concession, depression, pressure, welling. a sense one might call


ambivalence. in a body manufactured out of imaginings a scolding over posture. such concerns irrelevant as bones


resist bending. (didn’t mean to snap. I wait for mere atrophy.) on cyberdating: another casket enclosing the coolness of algorithms. please leave me alone. (using a body against a person’s will is not acceptable.)


A native St. Louisan, valerie witte received her MFA in Writing from the University of San Francisco. Her work has appeared in Eleven Eleven, Faultline, VOLT, Interim, No Tell Motel, Letterbox, and Like Starlings. She is currently a member of the g.e. collective in San Francisco and of Kelsey Street Press, which publishes innovative writing by women. Read more of her work at valeriewitte.squarespace.com.