Corbin Louis
nap after nap—with eyelids heavy as sediment—caked
onto an impossible wish—I remain stranded in lieu of
so many that died—blue faced with hundreds stuffed
in their shoebox atrium—glass cage heart—every weekend
visible in their expression—which is to say that we wear
our bodies like yellowed cloth—which is to say the menthol
has its tax—and bridge—we crossed atlantics—we sang
annoying odes—hollering third eye—all six of us looking
into the rearview—film strip—the hot pocket sanctum
perfect day to burn a white flag—nobly—peace on earth
was never ours to give—we’d rather file our teeth and
bite the crust—we’d rather die, angel like, jerking the
orgasms out of each other—as if the best feelings in us
are to be beaten out with a body part—butterfly edges
that cut our hands—the temptation to give up comes
in the most beautiful forms—like perc—like a TV alibi
like weekend after weekend—drunk at the pool table
just saying the same thing—‘I want a turkey sandwich
or an order of fries’—‘maybe even pad thai and a coke’
Clamor 