subway letters

The coedine pills in my pocket press against my ribcage. When you draw me with crayons, the fat pokes out. We’re talking about evolution, bodies in the radio. The bed expands wide as an ocean held perfectly still. Sky and earth asleep inside the semi-circular city. Blue tiles on the nose. Exhanges of the S under subway lights. Prickly, having sketched in the shade of the morning. Our minds are geared to want the first things only.

G, among the night limbs, rock back and forth like the long weeds. Two syllables together make a candle flame. Fingers trickle down the sheets. My face: pale, swollen, empty as a kitchen. Sleepless nights flop down around my waist. The letter O extends to the edge of my favorite blanket.

Now that I’m up, I pull myself through the weave of a coarsely textured sky. The desert makes a popping sound. I grip the mattress with my back, one foot rubbing obsessively against the other. Earth’s light streaks through the hollow inside of me, a hollow already in ruins.