BY BRIAN LOMBARDI

Sand falls from the ends of her hair.

The east coast rolls out of life

chasing us too far north

into the gums of great wolves.

I hope you’re happy, she screams,

and he tells her not consistently.

I could die right now, she whispers.

You can’t die; you just took out a library book.

She was turning her tongue around in her mouth,

summer freckles still brown on her nose.

He left his shoes hanging in a forest

because they gave him bad ideas.

As we descended the parking garage

We saw the orange crater left smoldering from the moon.

Children rippled in the ocean.

Their mothers were fireworks and sirens.

There are young lovers abroad, probably.

Look at us, patients prepped for exam

sharing waiting room camaraderie.

We want to exist, significant and invisible.

Balloons from old parties fall periodically from the rafters.

The strings tie themselves around me

and I look down at the old birthdays.

Anniversaries

I love everything, he says, monotone.

The bronze dust between her dark eyelashes

still haunt the past, trying to fix the future,

yawning in the dark like a tired ghost,

looking forward to a good dooming today.

My dreams are not Rome; they can be destroyed in a day.

Please be gentle.

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