Curled on a couch, wrapped in
seaweed and crystalline pastimes,
the alkali like so many horses
dead in the dry reservoir, I turned
the weather away from the fingers
and birds. This might be the end
of all sympathy, the terminus
of our voyage into the basement
where I construct replicas and
insinuations. The pipes sing to me
about everything I used to know,
nothing I remember, and now
I am barefoot on the train tracks.
I remove a splinter from a mirror.
There was movement under the bed.
I was careful to interrupt the nightmare
until the water rose to my neck,
and I could hear the bells
busy in the furnace.
From The Lilac Issue of Fairy Tale Review. Published by Wayne State University Press, 2022.