Tom Snarsky

by Tom Snarsky

How much electricity is there
in a sparrow’s heart, at rest
like no one, now, abetting

circulation, a thousand plus
bpm at its fastest, machine
learning how to fly and how

to die. I’ve gotta stop
putting god in these, he’s not
interested in the watch

once it’s shipped, only the putting
-together of it, the assembly
those lonely square faces

before the three black lines start
arcing around them, little
mechanical janitors

sweeping out days.
I act amazed but really I’ve seen
the trick before, I know where

the card goes, how it appears
on the other side of the window
like magic. I’ve been the assistant,

the cameraman, the gaffer.
Stolen all
that valor, crept toward death

wearing hats, how else.
The self is a Chris Fleming joke:
you have to talk and move

at the same time. Lying alone
won’t do, nor will hobbies,
poetry, gardening, the

late discovery of board games,
ornithology, ornithography
or volunteering with the wildlife

rescue. You have to be sick
and mean it, have to give
the mourning dove Patient

of the Week, have to trade
your early weak ideas
for late ones, convictions

ramified in the dark nights.

Tom Snarsky is the author of Light-Up Swan and Reclaimed Water (Ornithopter Press), A Letter From The Mountain & Other Poems (Animal Heart Press), and MOUNTEBANK (Broken Sleep Books). His chapbook Tired Light is forthcoming from Thirty West Publishing House in October. He lives in the mountains of northwestern Virginia with his wife Kristi and their cats. Website, social media: Twitter, IG, Bluesky

by Tom Snarsky

I say are you serious and my phone
googles the angry thing I meant
to say to the debt collector, who has me

on hold. I opened my heart to April
and became a serious liar, full
of dolls and music and more lateral

mistakes than I’m used to making,
five eggs in the from-scratch dough.
If you are invited to a party and do not know

the host, what do you bring? Not Jesus,
dripping with sirens. Not a lathe
even though you could offer to sharpen

every knife in the house.

Tom Snarsky is the author of the chapbooks Threshold (Another New Calligraphy) & Complete Sentences (Broken Sleep Books), as well as the full-length collections Light-Up Swan and Reclaimed Water (both from Ornithopter Press). His book A Letter From The Mountain & Other Poems is forthcoming from Animal Heart Press in 2025, and the title poem is available to read on Metatron Press’s GLYPHÖRIA platform. He lives in the mountains of northwestern Virginia with his wife Kristi and their cats. You can find him on Twitter, Instagram, & Bluesky @tomsnarsky.

by Tom Snarsky

This is a treatise on the art
of wanting things you cannot have,
whether it’s because someone
else has them & won’t give them up
or because schools of fish
are becoming more and more
selective with time, the bigger pools
of applicants winnowing
slowly enough for them to get away
with certain trickeries––––
like a jut of metal near the stream
still appearing strong & straight
despite having witnessed
years & years & years of rain,
so an accidental deer-nudge
is enough to break it clean
in two and set the rust flakes loose

to brighten the mud. I end up
doing that a lot, breaking things
that aren’t mine––––the trick is
to do it like the deer does it,
not on purpose but just because
you were trying to get a drink
that, whether or not you knew
it, would put gross stuff in your blood
and turn you into a problem.
Cherry trees don’t grow here
natively, they have to be brought in
& can’t be shaded by bigger trees
or buildings. They need deep,
well-draining soil, six hours
of sunlight a day, and if you don’t care
if the fruit is sour that’s really it

Tom Snarsky (@tomsnarsky on Twitter & Instagram) is the author of Threshold, Complete Sentences, Light-Up Swan, & the forthcoming Reclaimed Water. He lives with his wife Kristi and their cats in the mountains of rural northwestern Virginia.