after Alan Michael Parker
| it starts as a rash | hungover
past the yellow line |
i blur into a
stroller on the far platform |
we threw out
anything remotely half-used: |
my bedsheets lay limp, like
bedsheets |
| egg whites crease on themselves at every intersection | your basement
smells rotten for a week |
this is how the
world flattens: |
everything-turned conversation
fodder. yeast. |
my mother dreams of me as a dead woman |
| flies drown in an unending yolk | for my viewing
pleasure |
i watch us over
and over |
and then the trash gets taken out and then the trash gets taken out | because i was too hungry to stay
awake |
| come, i’m dying to tell someone how my double eyelids
are cheating on me |
and i’ve been
living on the edge too. only you know |
how water drags the rust from our metal | and trips over the edge of the flat,
flat earth |
in a month there will never have
been anything to say |