eleven

no blades anywhere. the busiest clock,
the afternoon that aches to smell like
breath, the chin in sloping hands, I found

the elevator bed, South Street Seaport
when all we had were bodies, just another
ringing now, just a pair of warnings for

your legs to hold together on the subway,
heavy rain was all, and not a lot of hands,
I held it together when the sun was up,

but nothing comes before, still after, still
that fabric breath, that static electric crawl,
a pair of radios to fall asleep to when all you

dream about is tongues, tongues down
throats, tongues on wallpaper, tongues to
keep the cardboard of your neck from showing

every single one of us on the beach in a
skin mask, every single one of us learning
about exit, not a lot of nobody in that burn,

says the man with boardwalk eyes, the
man with the skyscraper throat and all
the snow down F train arteries, nobody

burns and he’s laughing, and I can see it
in the afternoon, I can see it skyscraper,
playground on eighth street in the place

where the moon is hung, eleven seconds is all,
so there’s not a lot of time, but someone tells
you quiet, it’s still out there, holding itself up.

Nora Claire Miller is a rising senior at Hampshire College concentrating in poetry and archival studies. Nora’s work has appeared in H.O.W. Journal and The Reader.

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