Last night, the sky looked like a black lawn. I went to bed and had a fast dream. It might have meant something, I’m not sure. It’s hard work salvaging scrap metal from flying bullets.
I don’t think the neighbors know I’m living next door. I think the husband died. Usually, people do things for a reason.
Through my living room wall, I can hear the woman’s life rush though her, like a river rushes through itself, the telepathic frequencies lost in her hair. Is she laughing carefully or weeping aimlessly?
Fumes rest against my temples. From inside the television, the music swims like a motor of lies. I need a machine for talking to the future, so I can explain why it’s important to decelerate your blood.
Yesterday, I read about a man serving multiple life sentences. Now I’m wearing my leather gloves. They’re black as a ditch at midnight. My hands are quiet as rabbits. I’m prepared to evacuate the premises.
Usually, people know what they’re doing, they have a plan. They’re in control.
Usually, people do things for a reason.
Appears in the American Journal of Poetry, 2017