As if Drawn

from gazing directly at the sun, the faintest
mocking, quarter notes of silence
who graze from roof-flat to cedar bough and mock
the quarter notes between the mockingbirds’

falling now, worried as a lullaby
at the edge of sleep. Sleep says nothing,
lifts the needle back onto the record
after Curtis Mayfield’s final kindness.

That rising melt of sound
wants to lick the couch in the other room,
its crackle unscratched. Perhaps
to hear the layers of gaps
beneath his falsetto body—
your smoke is green, it’s all in words.

What surfaces?
Dot by dot, an image through another
needle, piercing into skin.

Dear inner voice of doubt, right
now you’re equal portions rot
eaten by grass and household fly. Perfectly,
and in all fault I mean just that,
receive this boiled advice as I have yours:
against what you demand of me, there
is none, no joy you don’t deserve.

Originally published in Tabako on the Windowsill (Brick Books, 2025).
Reprinted with permission.