after Louise Glück
It is terrible to survive,
this tidal swell of shot glasses, reflecting light.
Film of crushed pill, eyelash crust,
waking up on an autopsy table.
Victor Frankenstein’s pale hands,
hot breath on a stethoscope.
They say it’s a cry for help, a baby bird out of the nest.
The body a black stitch
coming loose,
inertia.
An impenetrable sea,
a dark cloth draped
over something moving.
Nothing stays buried.
They hint at the snake
swallowing his tail,
I’ve seen suns implode
like white ink
dripped into wine.
The world is colored paper
tearing itself to shreds
against the teeth of dogs.
We thought we were the dogs,
but we were wrong.
Black holes swallow the light
of neighboring stars,
trying to kill it, and failing.
Jay Sizemore hates when you call writing a hobby. His work has appeared here or there, mostly there. He’s had a lot of time to change his mind about everything. Currently, he lives in Nashville, TN, or does he even exist?
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