Chapbook Fellowships
from Forget Rita
With the same slow tackle of seasons touching,
the morning pressed into the back of my eyelids
that opened with a car key's clang in a toilet bowl.
Hours later, not sure where the day got off to,
my whole head filled with time
that shot like a laser through my ear canals,
a thin jet of seconds in its wake.
Late last night I turned on my bedroom light
in an electric confession:
"I lie down to stand on my underside,
the ceiling another wall I can't walk to."
It's why she hates overhead light,
or an adolescent taking down the trashy poster
taped over his bed—we all prefer subtle ironies.
