If I could just dip a single bare arm
into the middle of the ocean, imaginewhat wreckage I could pull. What
would it say about me to culturallyidentify with ghosts? I only want
to spin a toy globe for hours, makehurricanes for dinners, tsunamis
for dessert. The best way to makepeople love me is to occasionally
occur. I could tumble quietlyin a very nice dryer. Tomorrow,
your favorite sweater vest will betoo small. I am sorry for everything,
especially that we didn’t piss awaya few more hours pouring white noise
into the suburbs until the snow meltedand the neighbors became friendly.
Call it a history of being antiqued.We should have stayed behind
the band shell until the sirens fadedinto the cracks, rattled their way deep
down into the mummified wormsso we could watch them take just one
more inch remembering where theyhad left off. Just like the veins that stay
hidden until we age enough for our skinto fall slack. Just like how a march races
to the coda the moment the conductormoves his baton.
No. Just likethe moment he sees his baton
and decides that it must be moved.
Copyright © 2019 by Lucas Pingel.
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry Daily with permission.
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