neck straining my vision morphs
underside of a snow globe I taste how
familiar it feels again
Read MoreAs if I used to hold the shape of water. A natural body
holds its joy in its container. This was my innocence.
This, too, was its loss. As if a poem can always be
the pliable body you want it to be. I inhale deeply,
And in the infinite stretch between air and exhalation,
I am pierced by a hundred microplastic images,
a hundred synthetic insertions.
the one who became getai
or stagehand or stage for a family —
what was in the bun, in sparse distribution,
not worth the price of its plastic housing?
I am in line for one thing that leads to the next & away from
the sigh that sloughs off the edge of a bubble
— what was it you said in the shower that the rain repeated
because I am a poor listener?
Highlighter-green buses. Traffic lights casually
humming the melody of asphalt mornings.
Under each bus-stop roof, rays sweep thousands
of yawning faces with schoolbags packed like
dumplings: calculators, chromebooks & for many
the shame of undone homework.