Among the Nouns at the Apocalypse

Friday, July 15, 2022

Starlight and empty sidewalks, closed storefronts and cicadas,      
                         when did I first define solitude as standing adjacent to objects 

without touching? The streetlamps sputter Luna moths akimbo,
                         a frantic arousal, their rinse of wings.

If no one arrives, I’ll stay anyways, among the nouns, and their qualifiers,
                         breathing into my flushed fingers, my fragrant hands. 

In a clemency of wild air my body bristles like an orchard cast in color, cleft through
                         with want.

Friday, July 15, 2022