X Number
of waves dropped into froth Jellyfish a jar
of innards half-buried in sand Dead nature What are
these things and who are they for? This blue rug
is its own genre And these painted apples
round out the essence of what can be made
into what can be eaten Winter interest
3.9 APR April come She will not
swipe the sun into sky Limits of credentialed
credit “At least you’re not the janitor’s
azaleas of the everyday dustpan” There’s
the problem It’s like a concussive
grenade at the end of the mine Mind the
income gap Let’s activate the fact that
every word means go back to the back of the line
because that is where the front leads Years
of the postmodern translated by the annuity
of spring Hello My name
is the first person I I am indebted I am
indented I insist on remaining
unidentified
Copyright Credit: Chris Glomski, "X Number." Copyright © 2019 by Chris Glomski. Used by permission of the author for PoetryNow.
Source: PoetryNow (2019)