We traffic in the rhythms of urge. In the black turbulence
of the self, I tried not to ricochet. In our defense,
there were chandeliers in our chests
we were doing our bests
not to shatter. I’d already glued mine back
together once before. Another attack
of darkwinged thoughts, though rising
not so much like crows as bats compromising
with the dusk’s dark—they streeled
like drunk poets through the wheel
of sky. Who the hell is Orion hunting anyway?
I hope they get away.
I paced down Comm Ave, screaming at you, pure cyanide,
the shadows of sky lengthening on all sides.
Buildings wobbled & threatened to topple. A green wind
overtook ancient oaks. My speedometer was pinned.
Watch me balloon & shrivel across a city undiagnosed.
Watch me punch a brownstone & shout at strangers’ whispered ohs.
The clouds bled all evening.
I don’t mean it was raining.
Zachary Bond received the Beatrice Daw Brown Prize for Poetry in 2014. His work has been published online & in print, most recently in Window Cat Press and Reality Hands.