…so I can go home
By Alexus Erin
When the dreams were buried safe
in a verdant bulrush, guiding the paved
line of the Turnpike, an expectation
to move past, at breakneck pace, into the blur
of some foreign morning
in a future I can’t recall
from intuition or vision or Déjà vu
A ferocious and gauzing ray
– too hot, albeit threadbare –
obscured the closer, that is, what’s been
living nearest to the front door
of my chest, the orangerie
whose fruit I know
Its halves belonging only to one
another, a priori
One tree, one citrus
housed in one rind
Below one skylight
Under one sun, I heard you:
elsewhere, humming
Tapping the table
with your index fingers
Silk + Smoke 