by Noa Urbaitel
 

And I have a sick fascination
with planets that spill from fingertips
galaxies that collect near hairlines
like dust

And the men on the concrete corners
act like aliens
holding up technology boxes
speaking to invisible people
with perfect hair and loud problems

And despite society’s ruination
these are the things I hold dear:

dark blue
minor chords
eyelashes
typewriters
Not To Be Mentioned At The Dinner Table

And everything else is in a basket
a miniscule wicker basket
hidden next to mementos from childhood:

pages of ink black words
threadbare tee shirts

And, planets and galaxies
that haven’t spilled from me in years.

And I can hear Saturn’s moons crying

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