now pretend this feathery,
half frozen
rain and block of Lake Street
begins the uncambering of your forehead.
so your face has unnavigable
corners. so the sidewalk cracks up
atop a segment of wind
and you rattle across
with skinned palms. the lamplight
makes tinsel of powerlines
nearby, climbs
into your cheek nicked
while shaving and makes
bath towels of your lips. you appear
blustery, uncool, out-shouted
by the puddle of cars on Chicago and beneath
your hair sprouts a paisley
of acne. hey –
are we catching this bus or did
you chuck your
high-tops into the river? you need, now,
little of the whiskey; anyway
little is left. and
you’re drunk, buddy, so don’t pretend your
soul is getting sat on. friday, the evening
breaks antiphonally like a mercouple
chanting
inside a long pocket
of oil slick. someone’s erupted cardboard
shanty comes
brawling across the street.
you think: that is what my mind is like.
you think: the willowy ligature
of 22 years to arrive upon
ice on a block of brick in minneapolis
distant, pinched among the corrugated floors
of you come
saying something bizarre: let’s
hug off all the traffic lights and
stack them on the library steps, it’ll
sing like an aquarium.
you think: an aquarium of wounds,
a planetarium of starfish cut out
in the bluing, a high water mark like
your throat
ruffling with anemones; you
think of your evening
thus far, and
spit, and
go asking buddy
for another swig.
