The bakery’s graffiti either spells HOPE or NOPE. But hope and results are different, said Fannie Braun to her Keats voiding his unreasonable lung. Getting off the medicine completely means light again blinking to light. Device returned to its factory settings. The complete black of before the meteor shower above the bakery. If you lose the smell of leather, lemon, or rose, studies show you will fail at being, like Keats. I keep watching the same meteor shower videos on YouTube where awe is always a question of scale. Night can be moths or weather, pulled in the dark. The bakery, now, is beginning to close. My arrhythmic heart aches for the kind of dramatic arc one can’t shop for. Or else to lease what’s real for a while— is this the good kind of consumption? I wonder over the weight of meaning. The difference between hull and seed. The sugary donut and its graceful hole. The greasy bags that everyone leaves in the alley leading to my door. These scraps I work at like a crow. Copyright © 2015 by Christopher Salerno. Used with permission of the author. |
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