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
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.