Sara Mumolo
Mayflies
this is not intentional. and
reliable. streets are marketable
snow-globes. and a brain
breathes just above the flood-line.
a nexus of slick lardy castles.
and if you lick
my pulse
you'll hear the faint
static of flakes. it lets
you in. or you
stay. to remember
november. going
half-blind looking for volumes:
an anonymity
and what were the colors of Achilles'
beard.
so. when brushing
teeth naked.
don't think of presidents.
a restless light
mid-fall.