Issue 11

An Intersection

 · Poetry

I was sitting at a table outside in the night. The people around me ate and drank in comfort, 
a few notches below bliss. What else is hammered. Watch your tone. I can’t, it’s like the back 
of my head. 

               One house lit up with a birthday banner
               in the foyer; the sneezing dogs on their
               evening out; a semi-present wish
               to stop all this. 

Some people pose for a picture. “Wait, guys, let’s get one where we’re all laughing at each 
other.” Laughter is a form of what kind of thinking. What’s worse: the people or the 
reclamation of want the people bring out in you. 

               I kid myself. 
               I say, “I like my sweetstop tongue.”
               I can’t look 
               to be a part of all this. 

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