Three Poems|Ivan Peledov

What a Waste


A fox would never ask a rabbit

where the trees are going at sunset,

but clouds kiss empty freight cars

and slowly implode. Awkward steps

of the priests can’t repeat the pattern

of the stars. Darkness curses them all,

along with cows, traffic lights, flying saucers,

divine flesh and fake music.

It’s a nice little story, they say,

less than a word in length. A coyote

heard it from a dragonfly when it was

too hot to care about the meaning.

But now it’s cold, and the gods

don’t understand our songs.






Flowers bloom in the mirrors like broken letters. Poisonous, according to the rumors,

flowers silently count museums of noise in the towns of crumpled birds.






Don’t you tell me of those fabulous creatures

that sleep in the canyons when summer is far away,

nor of a marvelous beasthood on the other side of the Sun,

nor the names of the two-legged who haven’t returned from the dead.

Our water is too old to drink.


Photo by Yeh Xintong on Unsplash



Ivan Peledov is a poet living in Colorado. He has been published in Unlikely Stories, Eunoia Review, Sonic Boom, Illuminations, and other magazines.

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