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.