Fall 2012: Issue 92

Matt Hart

Two phone calls come

I miss or I skip them

It’s not as if

the satellites really need me

It’s not as if the rooster

is anybody home      Loneliness

and reasons        I am full of

stomach bugs      Later

the defender, and the tulips

still sleeping       We’re springing

forward, the grass is grown

Can you believe how

impossibly this is living

and you’re a ghost,

or only closest to me,

reading something juicy,

something with its mouth

hanging open

in the doorway, saying

what ails me is what ales me

I have fallen down the stairs now

some number of times,

but nothing’s so surprising

as the spot beyond the lantern,

the place where the wigwam

waits to be history

It is mostly out of the picture

Or another day for me

to make a pitch in pitch darkness,

the night-light on strike,

saying, fuck it, go home

I want to be blown

all out of proportion,

every mythical monster

and a case of Hop Bomber

It’s the final dress rehearsal

and no one’s being serious

This used to make me nervous,

but now it makes me normal