we are among the freight trains,
where the stars took
on a weightless quality,
suspended in God’s upturned inkwell.
not as expected.
when i turn from the campfire
glimpse & recourse & shock
a spadeful of heart into seeing
the devil’s tattoo on your chest.
if we are outward are we less damned?
no. yet we are capable of disaster
& set to prove insurance policies.
long ago, of course. in the now also.
like love or elasticity or
dollar bills matted by more
fingerprints than our local precinct’s quarterly intake.
the others painted cave walls,
more distant than far away,
the distance of a human failing
by any sunfall & we knew
that of all the asteroids
with plotted courses for South America
& the New Mexican wasteland,
this bedridden greenery was us.
Michael Prihoda lives in central Indiana. He is the editor of After the Pause, an experimental literary magazine and small press. His work has received nominations for the Pushcart Prize and the Best of the Net Anthology and he is the author of eight poetry collections, most recently Years Without Room (Weasel Press, 2018).
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