by Susan Comninos
From Fall 2016
Maybe there'll be nothing left — maybe there won't be. A tic feels more real than the body, the head looks more whole than the whole. Blank sheets of rain slick a torso of snow, wet stitches the ground above ground. It's grand, how music splayed in arcs, from cave to mp3 to I don't know. I stopped caring with college. Time rolls: in waves (soldiers of fortune, but distracted — furious with boredom). Attention's a lapse, it lacks focus. See how slowly the sun dials back its hot face, at our frowns? Don't stop dissing puffs of clouds: Who are they to talk-talk like ghosts of gassed-up whimsy? The air is dozing. Wake it with a needled presence, your nattering voice. Unhook an earpiece, throw me the tatters of your banter. H-h-here is the hear that you've longed for.