But that face death has never proper greeted you, curious pet. The drooling heat, that
lampy branch that bocks the pane, literarily ad nauseam the beckoning finger closest
come. Wring still your wrists despite whatever what it does to you, that 50-pound canary
dead on your heart, botching efficiency reports in the spring balm that oils the window
in little handfuls. Still, the day, old diorama, child’s plaything, useless without the proper glass to see it under. So, to work: maintain a healthy lack of paranoia. Get along now but perhaps don’t always. Rearrange that rainbow wig of light into a halo.
Ally Harris is a recent graduate from the Iowa Writers Workshop and has poems at Diagram, Tarpaulin Sky, Sixth Finch, and the Agriculture Reader. A chapbook of poems is forthcoming from Dancing Girl Press.