By John Gosslee
This is the apocalypse,
watching the life of a fly
aware of itself, in a jar.
If the arm could pass through the wall into some kind of heaven,
the body could follow, but the hand is tied to the wheel,
the mind to witnessing, and they take the body
through the narrow canal.
There‘s the whisper late at night, a victim in the wall,
when sleep is a heavy-hand
longing for another scrim of land.
I drive into the night
and decide it‘s better to go home,
it’s been so long since I turned back, after going out,
that the return is another kind of moving forward.
The hum of the city, the skateboard wheels,
sports bar toast are like water spots
on the dishes in the sink and nothing is clean.
A body in the ether looks for a door out,
I look above the cars, over the moon swept buildings
for a path, as if I might be a beacon or see a door,
but I remain and no one comes.