SWWIM publishes, celebrates, & promotes women, women-identifying & Femme-presenting writers through a Miami-based reading series & the online poetry journal SWWIM Every Day.

The Vibrato at Fixed and Pointless by Amy Poague


There are such hearts to remain

Inside; I circle this knowing, connecting point to point,

As direction accepts itself. I conduct this orchestra, see…whole

Gaggles of violins or kazoos. We sit circular

On our patch of grass hereafter. Random synthetic

Synthesizer reduces us to giggles. I pass the salt shaker


To the guy sitting with himself on the ceiling. His shaking

Opens him and opens sitting spherical. The vibratory remainders

Move all of our fingers to holding. His synthesist

Inclinations recline on all of these fold-up clouds. Point?

Yes, or yes—many. Roundness sufficient to circulation

Of the waking dream. We are all! Wholly


At the catered brunch on the most fragile landmass without holes.

Salt shakers, tablecloths lower themselves to shake

Above the table, then drop. The waiters are circumspect—

In waiting only. We dish up our own. What remains

Ends in the dog’s bowl. Nothing being lost. The remark pointed

Learns pointless. And carries it everywhere. Synthesize


Your globe and share and please don’t push synergy.

A few of us already folded our maps. We’re happy. Holistically

Speaking, we can all hug if we hear the ground shake apart from itself—point, counterpoint.

Point by point we compass encompassed. The Shakers were moved to shake.

The Quakers made oatmeal and waited for speech. Speech remains

Outlasting consciousness, translating each utterance. Listens beyond listening. Circles


When we land. Circles when we hover. I learn to circumambulate.

I do that when I’m happy and never bored. I like synth

With soul. To sweat over it with my careful heart and remain

Inside conducting four-four time. Re-figuring the holes.

I’d like to shake all the hands inside their shaking.

The hands of musical time point


To enfolded petals and stars held buzzing in place, on point.

The feast continues in the encirclement of circles.

Laughter catches at us in losing nothing. The sound shakes

Into the next shape: a deepening concentricity as safety. Whoever mans the synthesizer

Probably laughs too. The map in my pocket isn’t whole.

Not yet. But remains.


The circle arrived shaking.

O synthesizing O synthesizing hole into whole.

In pointlessness I hope we may remain.


Amy Poague is a poet currently living in Iowa City and working at a junior high school. In August of 2015, she completed her M.A. in Creative Writing at Eastern Michigan University. Her work has appeared in Fine Madness and the Iowa City Poetry in Public Project. She has enjoyed collaborating with community organizations and institutions that foster creativity in children and teens, including 826michigan (Ann Arbor), Fly Children's Art Center (Ypsilanti, MI), and the International Writing Program (University of Iowa, Iowa City, IA). 

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