You haven’t said more.
It sits inside you like a wet package.
The heat dissolves. Night comes in
through French doors. It is all accompanied by
people jabbering on cell phones, which is
its own inhospitable forecast. Vans
drive the street. I remember
the movie we didn’t watch, the plot we didn’t
Whichever of us likes an aquarium has
some need for scale.
the lengths of industrial glass where nothing is
swimming. At night, I watch you watch
the plaid in your sleep.
Lizards on trees. Wet birds jabbing
at the air. Anything if it is disjunctive enough
can sound full of meaning.
Anything can be in the final shot.
that look, like wherever you are
you wish you’re someplace else —
though specific or
otherwise, you don’t say. I say
I love how snow falls
on gray snow. And at night
you can see the stars here,
but really, how long do you want
to look at stars? If you say it
and say it and say it, even happy
sounds meaningless. Or sad or sorry
or sublime. My favorite word is now.
No, now my favorite word is
the one you’re about to say.
“Wish is a funny word,” you say,
pouring coffee. “You don’t
hear it much anymore. Must be
we all got what we wanted.” —Excerpt from “In Lansing,” Matthew Thorburn
America with your apartment
wrapped around it: heart grown,
absent, stupid, stop it: we are bad
books about our favorite topics.” —“The Great Gatsby,” Sam Donsky