by Jessica Morey-Collins
I am a flock of often
lost over a chop besotted ocean—
a ten hour yawn straight down-
ward. Hoarder of
boredom, floor made of doorways,
I’ll collect your attention in barrel
drums, wear your staring out
in public. Love is the thunder come
from an excess of heat-trapping
gases—the flat circle of time
filled with my image. And as lead
leaches into our groundwater,
I’ll hound your sky for a drink.
Each hour as a doll infinitely nesting,
and us reflected in every temporal direction.
You’ll be a pall around my shoulders—holding
both storm and warming peripheral, as given
as your listening. Let’s laugh over glasses
of rainwater, cloud our horizons and fly to-
ward toward no shore at all.