Let light become the room.
Over kind of near the golf course the air dries itself and steps into the explosive new sun, each house its own pastel, each dog its own dog.
Say we’re here, entwisted, nesting, watching for new shades of sun in the long curves of our bellies, thinking there was a time before birds when we could sleep off our what-have-yous, sopping dead wet and in peace.
Say our ceiling’s mutual.
Say we both have soft bellies, talking mostly and white in these chandeliers, or say we let all of this congeal.
Rumor has it we’re in the 50 percent of here in which there’s nothing left to do but slide, jelly-kneed, into the length of the rest of the day.
Say the room begins to gel.
Rumor has it we’re only half here, that there’s nothing left to do but slide, longingly, into what’s left of the rest of the day.
Say we cross our ceilings and tell each other stories in which our bellies condense and grow white, in which the chandeliers do most of the talking.
We look to our twisted nest, watching our shadows grow long as the sun curves along our stomachs, thinking we will sleep off our birds in due time, that the dead are wet and in peace.
For fifty percent of us there will be no rain, as dog after dog explodes itself dry in the pastel air around the golf course.
Let’s let that light the room.
We have to slide on our knees to even come half together in a room.
We run into rumors the rest of the time.
Let’s give the chandeliers something to talk about.
Say we tell the story of our dead ceiling, or say our stomachs collapse.
The sun curls up over the explosive golf course, telling us it’s time to sleep, that we will neither have rain, nor peace.
Let’s keep half the light here, where we can watch the birds twist a wet nest of our shadows.
Let’s watch the dogs pastel the room.
If 50% of our dogs pastel themselves and form an explosive ring around the golf course, there will be no rain.
Leave the light on in my room.
Say we look forward to the distortions in our nest, to watching the sun grow long as it shadows along the curve of our stomachs, to sleeping at a time appropriate to birds, to knowing that death is wet, as is peace.
Let’s tell stories to the chandeliers in which ceilings collapse.
Let’s let our bellies do more than talk.
We are left to slide along on our knees until the room comes half together, with nothing left to run into, and these are rumored to be the rest of our days.
Michael Joseph Walsh is a PhD Candidate in Creative Writing at the University of Denver and co-editor for APARTMENT Poetry. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in DIAGRAM, Fence, PANK, and RealPoetik