Andrew Wessels
Andrew Wessels has lived in Houston, Cambridge, and Las Vegas. Currently, he splits his time between Istanbul and Los Angeles. His poems, translations, and collaborations can recently be found in or are forthcoming from VOLT, Fence, Colorado Review, The Journal, Washington Square Review, Grist, Handsome, Fact-Simile, and 580 Split. He edits The Offending Adam.

Yok         ::         Not Existent

in the elation                                     the moon                                     gibbous is funny servant perhaps or standard                                     bearer                                     burnt rosewood                                     bored tree–fin better yet red                                     slate counter                                     functional static the moon stands funny                                     wind                                     function                                     bored in red bored by burnt counter or                                     tree–fin yet                                     better standard bearer standing                                     he laughs                                     gibbous                                     whistle unsettled we know it...

Var         ::         Existent

Whether I am stone or iron, I will be brought back to life, sailed in on ships from sea, led in through the gates. To be a tree is to be a tree: green scissored into leaves turning too slow to catch up. The first time was better, two bodies orbiting, depending...

Sonbahar         ::         Last Spring, Fall

I go loud into this shouting stone once for the clock lost in the grass and once until I return home. These briars in my pocket keep spring next to my thigh. When the clouds break to the stars, all this must go into safekeeping. Winter leans in the sky that can...

Ötesi          ::          What Follows, The Rest

one day was the first day                                                  cool and a question of            perspiration on the tabletop                       the new building set stone over stone            among tall weeds next to the river                                    on the ground lost with the bugs                       a daydream of spiders in the snow   one day was the second day                                    dim and...

Ilkbahar          ::          First Spring

The cloud of word is cloud. The color of word is white clean pure ominous. The wind so away — Pigeon feathers in the parking lot. Blue varieties. A new civilization. A blue seagull across the window. The statue, bronze and greening, the hand stretches up at the ceiling, the world moss...