Five Short Poems by Michael Cantin

Without Roots

Without Roots this Ikea bed
supports me just about as well
as a twig supports a tree house

Glue sticks

Paper thin is the stuff of life;
each man but fibers, easily undone
so quickly burned:
so casually rendered to dust.


Lenses learn to paint desire
when held in your hands.


Attempt to reconcile desire.
This stone refuses to bleed.


A darkened room
with a paper bowl
of instant noodles.

Michael Cantin is aspiring poet and sloth fanatic residing somewhere in the wilds of Orange, California. He writes fitfully between bouts of madness and periods of lucid concern. His poetry has appeared both online and in print.  You can find his work in The East Jasmine Review, Melancholy Hyperbole, 50 Haiku, several anthologies, and elsewhere.  He hopes that you find the same sublimity is the surreal and absurd that he does.

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