Barzun, reactionary, follows you home and kisses your jaw. I am jealous. I kick at soda cans and leave you alone all day,
spying instead on your hand in the slit of a book.
If this storm comes only in pitch
how can I stay up late and watch
if it only comes to me in dreams
how can I see that I am awash in it?
Severe weather: you don’t know where I am or what I’m doing, nor why I smooth the folds of my skirt in heavy downpour. Severely: you are holding this book, squatting in front of a closed shop. Your back is an accordion, again.
—how to paragon shifting dimes so they further reflect
the lone sculptor up to his neck in necks?
Again, again, the God body riots in the curve of—not spine, mine.
We could clear the room with our nervousness.
We could leave other people checking their bodies for ticks.
For surely something is crawling.
Miranda Dennis resides in the always-blossoming neighborhood of Bushwick in Brooklyn. Her current projects include fiction-writing, approving invoices at her job, and trying to turn "Beyonce" into a verb.