In faucet’s chrome finish I hold a dollar and feel only the weather. Gone gaunt again a day passes in a long walk back to the office where I repeat minimalism without moving my lips. It’s harder than it sounds. I leave the door open to its own devices—three hinges and some disappearance.

Austerity measures longing between where you imagine yourself and where you’re imagined. People actually live there. I only hear my rumors decades later stalking my choices. A parkslope in brownstone? The job is doing what it loves. Do your impersonation of a drone flying over a busy promenade in mid-August.

Now do it like you mean it.



An experience is not one experience but less than one. I promised to project myself onto the playground at 5am. But scared of the nothing of never returning I balked. There are several of us I haven’t heard from since. Summer nausea flecked with bees. Merry-go rounds without mercy. I went to the apple stump where we would have met had we gone.

Best described as the year searching for plane debris washing up on remote islands. Best described as confronting a memory then becoming a memorial hall. Best described as hewing close to pebbled walls. Roseate? Best described as taking one last trip into the artifice. Street food and stink eye.

A rabbinical rope.


Oren Silverman’s recent poems have appeared in Gigantic Sequins, Volta, and Prelude online. The poems in this issue include language by Mei-Mei Berssenbrugge and the sculptor Charles Ray. Oren lives in Denver and works in an office building.