to reach a state of slumber, at first we
must fake it. after soup, supine lying
our eyes to shut—fasting realities
like understudies on a stage, become
dead. wait into the wash of it and hope
for the coming (or else come to make it
easier). I dwell on my flamingo
pillow case, two in the morning, and soon
noon will come— but what time is will listens
composition to enact floral blouse
or swim sublunary a prose tortoise
through a metonymical petticoat
this simply extends trimmings or thus pun
the letter 4 : a flamingo resting
alone the weather in itself.
who is gonna give you what
you lack? privacy
is vigil, vigil
the gentleness of this—
a little pain.
when all my companions left town for the summer
I was born, had to place myself.
in water, warm I tinkered:
when does social life begin, aging, does it return?
so many distractions here
not here—pointing out.
in hot mist tonight I witness
its confusion with louisiana,
hear one siren
at a distance, bending:
in one heave big
the brain, the fact vigil
also means awake.
(outside a banana
no hurricanes this summer yet but heat
above the sea builds in
the gulf is big. evacuation is
a team attempt.
Cameron Lovejoy is the founding editor at Tilted House, a small press in New Orleans, Louisiana. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Columbia Review, DIAGRAM, Bayou Magazine, and more.
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