From inside the mountain I’m
a drum. Inside the drum, I’m
counting slowly to ten, trying to step
out of the hottest shower. Next
& naked, I wash the dishes to air-dry.
People leave by airplane. They leave
by UHaul. By cloudy Fords. With full
tanks. By noose & ash. I know they’re not
leaving me, per say, but how do you not
feel left. Silhouettes fill with pollen &
slivers of soap. Somewhere you’re
eating breakfast or hanging from my mind’s
bridge. Somewhere you’re sidereal, fixing
high beams. Or blowing eyelashes from your
computer keyboard. Inside the mountain is
room temperature. Air circulates through
a series of words. I stack three towels
for guests. An new bar of soap for the squeamish.
Soon a silhouette will send a painting in the mail.
Of a bloody train, a lace carousel, the sound I’m trying
to fill each space with. Outside the mountain
my hair glints like a CD on your dashboard.
Transportation means I miss you. Or maybe
a mountain could find a tunnel. Like how right now
my arm plunges into your guts. You are a drum set.
The sky above these plains looks like it belongs
to the sea & here I am with those excited eyes.
