Sometimes I turn all the lights off Count yellow Through the kitchen window Searching for Polaris. Soft smoke floats above A burning out filter In a mason jar to my left. Slowly my head sinks into cold tile. I come across beds of fallen greenery Glistening raindrops on forest floor. Rosy clouds radiating Milky sunbeams.
God has left a lamp on in autumn’s living room. Though the humid months have gone, taking with them their concentric circles of sweat and dirt, the air weighs more than dropped pennies, and I shift side-to-side between my curtains of skin, as though living permanently in a too-itchy Halloween costume. Remembering the year I dressed as a goblin
How have you been feeling? Been exercising? Staying healthy? She asks On Monday I ate a MetroCard for breakfast I say I found it facedown grounded into the asphalt slid it down my throat in a 7/11 bathroom stall where a dime was caught between the cracked blue tiles You’ve been sleeping okay? She asks
It starts with mist rising from the stamped down dust the bare earth sings in cracks and dried up creek beds; sun bleaching the last life out of their massive stones I love the way you say “cor — por — re — uhl” when our bodies take shape, it’s between the Hardee’s and the