back in belly of smoke
& he’s ready to make
his peace with
god, I guess
golden soles walked down to the bone
should take it easier on
himself, or whatever on & on form unto itself
all our love begat an indecipherable algorithm
peeling red distant echoes of skyline
staring out a train window
hands up to the stunted
suburban cosmos & ‘ok. you got me.’
americana dreaming slipping through
a shattered lavatory cistern, dripping all night
after everyone’s gone to bed &
rubs amber sunset into his gums
a cut past noon bleeds
ultraviolet plasma
all week long
such a str8 boi
unhealthy nostalgia
& vine leaves up the side of his mother’s house &
slipping through his fingers
all the marble swimming pools in cheshire overflowed with
tenderness & functionalism & cryptic songs
of alone at the kitchen table
of sipping from expensive tea cups
3 AM is all he has
with his — er — hair &
blue prayers
his dreams of an
unknown
visitor
—
Al Anderson was published in the 2016 UEA Creative Writing MA Anthology: Poetry
