In a clinking swarm all the sunglasses
you ever lost return to your face
Shaded arachnid vision extricates
itself from lake beds sewer grates
the depths of your filthy sedan
Who knew they were migratory
that home was a landscape
with your nose
Werewolf at City Edge
The further outside the city limits
the larger the dogs
the larger the yards
the more space to punt a ball
and to never see it again
Beneath the overpass
this man in a blazer
clutches his ribcage
like a dozen rock lobsters
have come clawing
for the opening
in the paper bag
where the booze once was
I make the smallest noises
as I walk
just another human spirit
restless as a cockroach
creeping into Saturday
on pencil-thin legs
Why aren’t we friends anymore
Cold November night without a coat,
what astral planes am I supposed to be
operating on when we aren’t friends anymore?
You who were an ice floe peopled with bears.
You who were baked Alaska melting and no one certain how to salvage the ruin.
Maybe I never liked you.
There’s a lone chiweenie sniveling in the stairwell outside
or maybe that’s just the whine of the super’s power-drill losing its charge.
Or if it’s the chiweenie, maybe she’s the lost dog on the poster. You know,
the beloved friend with a bounty on her head running scared?
Image by Lilit Matevosyan