late night noons

Eyes

scantily dressed

in eyelids

and bodies

flit.

I wake

to late night

noons and noons

from many moons

ago.

News,

a skank,

she won’t go home,

she’s with fever

not with child,

she cannot

taste her tongue.

Fridge,

and five

half empty jars

of jam, and

thousands of deaths

in New York City

alone, I eat

my feelings

in April

and think of

June. 

Numbers

smell of unmourning,

but I’m innumerate

behind these

roadless doors.

Behind these doors

the air is still

and the pots

are boats

that don’t bob

in the clogged

sink. 

Mother,

your womb is far

and the wild-eared

have escaped

their fold.

I fold

your light in

stacks, store it

where my eye can see.