Summer is like supper in that they’re both
warm and remind me of family and vomiting
in fires, instead of deleting I just, start over
with charred leftovers intact like a toothpick
bridge hellbent to crack like a neck, as the sun rises
still and pale against erroneous clouds, today is not
the day for these clouds. I want so badly for fresh
clouds to be painted over these clouds.
To chisel the smells of salt and pepper, and
love into the air over the acidic flames
that ran too near to the center of the house.
I’ll brush emerald smoke and
never understand why diamonds have to be
so damn hard.
NOT A MAGPIE
All of my wounds are salted.
stumbled in the dark
to get to a light
never there to begin with,
like a swooping predator
or a creature
from that one weird thing,
a revolving idea
that incessantly stabs
the tongue until it’s fat
like infected bug bites,
body temperature floats
a little more orange
and red and confused and
unable to flap its wings,
a throat stuffed with
dirt and sticks
is as good a home
in a universe of mirrors.
If nothing matters why does everything matter down to the color of light pushed out of electrical component eyes haggard at their embedding in the concrete watching bodies becoming books and books becoming threads and threads becoming light and light becoming heat and heat becoming a fur coat and a fur coat becoming mushy fruit stuck inside.
Logan Roberts is an artist and writer in Florida. He tweets @hello_im_logan.