Shorts and a t-shirt. Not even
nothing’s bitten into you.
And to think they call this lack
of shrapnel “fall.”
Last night was all corners; this morning
sports a fumbled-up glow.
With your marrowy kilter, you’ve
believed into this weather, grown
to hate some certain turns and times
of day, but you’re mostly okay:
a more plausible me, a less
unthinkable pile of holes.
Watch the world and it’ll crack.
You’ll see star dirt, sure, but let the sun
not be a lesson. There’s a bruise at the end
of the light still hurts from way back.
There’s this disease runs from “quit-
to-keep-staying” to “pressed-
for-safekeeping” and yes,
you can recycle it.
The people bells are different from
the God bells, but how?
The hell’s a ghost before it gets to us?
You are only not thinking out loud now.
Copyright © 2009 Graham Foust
Used with the permission of Flood Editions.