for Madi

February whiplash—

tropical forties some days, then

back to snow & single digits

the next—the anniversary of

your uncle’s silence takes us into

the trip as the gel tabs weaken & break in

our gullets. An hour later I’m a

khaki wizard who can’t charm his

hair still, yet conjures med school diagrams

for your husband at FedEx. 

Why did he send us out? The panspermia/

pandemonium/pangolin is still roaming

the desert of bastard city earth so when we

dare to overload in a record shop you

skirt from a schlub w/ his mask under his

nose, crying—

He doesn’t have a face! His face isn’t on!

We flee to St. Hedwig’s but God isn’t home

so we live on bread alone at Sciortino’s

across the street.

We can’t set the snowman w/ dripping

lollipop eyes free but back at

your place there are hugs & tears & your

poor dogs can only know we love them so

much, thankful they aren’t aware and sorry

for all this that isn’t their fault.

Finally, Black Pumas, pizza,

the cloudy methane comedown.

I croon adieu you 2 & my statue slinks home,

north of thirty & beat, wondering how hippies did it

in their world, just as neon dirty as ours.



Seth Copeland is an Okie frozen in Wisconsin. Some of his words are lurking in Juke Joint, Yes Poetry, Drunk Monkeys, and Dream Pop, to name a few. He edits petrichor, can be found on NeutralSpaces, and Twitter @SethTCopeland.