And against a marble stump
I lean the glass sword
of a sigh. My heart is blinking
like a taco truck. That means I’m late
to walking, haunted, through the aisles
of a Kohl’s.
I know, I know. A goose is dragging
an aurora borealis
through my living room. Somewhere,
a mountain’s tipping over
like a stack of paper plates.
Whatever, though. It’s time
for bed—I hear the yellow
snouts of mitochondria
blowing bubbles in my blood.
I won’t say bye. I’ll say visit
again, whenever you would like.
This heart’s a door
kicked in by language.
You do not have to knock.
Lloyd Wallace is on staff at the Adroit Journal and Poetry Daily. His work has appeared in FENCE, THRUSH and periodicities. The recipient of a fellowship from The Folger Shakespeare Library, you can find him on Twitter @jockeycornsilk.
Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan
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