The moon is empty,
whatever else may be happening
in the change of setting.
He removes his hand
from the inner pocket of his blazer,
and it is empty.
Her hand finds its way
from her hip to his
and then across his back,
flat and moving upward
until her fingers hook
just over his collar
and tug just barely.
“I just thought,” she continued,
“we could extend to each thought
the courtesy of completing it.”
The small crowd
that had coagulated around her
broke into laughter. The ceiling caved right in.
Pure imitation is only possible
in the cult of authenticity,
for these are the flowers of our youth,
the cant of glorious magmas
instantiated in molecular puzzles
of personally offending highwire commentary
delivered in drollest New England chowder.
Exhale of concept.
The future of the worker is closing its doors.
It’s fine with me if nothing happens.
I expect some feelings of disappointment,
but they won’t encompass us,
not with so many dots to fill in
and the regular accomplishing of sentences
in the high-spirited yellow living room,
steam of small dishes
against the cold weather,
children’s desperation, a loosening
of screens, a face at the window
receding. The darkness,
as they say, abounds within us.
He choked to death on his own joke.
The dogs had some kind of dispute.
Choose a glass from this tray and wait.
She smiled from the corner of the stadium.
I borrowed this car from a sick neighbor.
The signs insist all they like.
I think we know better.
No one delivers a punch like me.
I can’t even feel my hands.
It’s been ages since I thought of this.
We’re desperate for your love.
Revise at will and send on.
I can’t wait to hear what you think.
Then I consider explaining to him just how awful he is to me.
I lost all interest in ever saying anything.
I just sat there and took it.
I don’t expect to stay much longer.
I just don’t see how I could.
Copyright © 2017 Paul Killebrew
Used with the permission of Canarium Books.