Published online with Funicular, 2020

We pile onto the creaking couch,

its skin splitting,

its legs moaning,

like young chicks in a feathered pile,

huddling for warmth against the

deep blue of the evening.

We’ve piled two thousand times before it seems,

it seems comfortable as old shoes,

it seems flat as an old sole.

Flashes of some Midwest-dream of a football game

no one’s watching,

watching the synthetic shine of

aluminum, plastic, and gold twine

snap in the yellowing of the light.

We pile into a single night,

elbows knocking,

desperate for breath,

it moves our fragile minds to

1983, 1992, and so on

for some nutmeg-melamine-dusty taste of


and so on,

and so on.

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