I am lying in a field behind my house and I am drunk. The poem starts and ends like this, I am still here. I’m tired of doing this, but my chest has hands and they grab at anything within reach; the doorknob, the bottle, the backs of people passing by, the bodies, the bodies.
I am lying in a field and I am drunk and there is a boy who knows my mouth. He lives five houses down. I want to tie a string around his wrist and lead him here, to this, pile of limbs, folding into each other, tents collapsing, ground is safer than wind, ground is safer than him. He has eyes like bees, they buzz towards me, worse, they fly away from me, I am wanting. It is all I am.
I am lying in a field and I am drunk and I am pretending to be the only person in the world. It’s almost believable except for the car engine whisper, the distant breath of a bass beat waking up neighbors. The world is whole, but it is hollow, outlined in glass. I am saying, I am the loneliest letter on the keyboard. I am saying, find a word for this. I am speaking to the glass outline of moon now, saying, count your craters. Inventory your loss. Let me know if you figure out how to write it down.