by Raphael Moser
Forsythias ferns doctors
In a truck, beside the road
Sun curled around the edges
Of the rust the tin roof
I held open my wrist
The veins like gnarled
Harbingers
Chromosomes lay in red racks
As the engine idled
I peeled off a layer
And slipped out
One hour and forty-five minutes
Standing and reading and looking
The man with ear buds and
Slivers of the New York
Times withdrawn
The woman who waited on
Lines at three times
And left
Harsh and falsely
Ignorant a voice
Mangled
The finely tuned air crushing
The dissonance
Walking through
The door
Clock striking
Drama drama corpuscles
Pre subsequently post
