Ten thousand now, falling faster,
the second you stared, the first time she doubted
the Stanton Island Ferry, homeward bound,
the sea and a pale white bird. She was not happy. I know
it’s not me, only what I could have grasped if
I’d set my mind to humanity instead of this
secret mind talk and red can bacon grease. You
look at me as if you know me. Then you put me on the shelf.
Rice paddy in the wheat field, mud between toes,
sun as sharp as the sound of rifles in the summer heat,
waffling in the sweat soaked satisfaction.
You’re the one whose detriment means nothing.