Let’s be grateful for doorstops. Why not
do the Lord’s work when the Lord is in
the building? Whoever wears your shoes
loves you. A morsel of confetti
diaries aspirations, takes out a loan
for an eye and a bicycle. The disorder of mid-mourning
before friends and birds start chatting. This is your table
with the water missing, the nakedness in a busy hour.
Choice like a cherry. Only the simple models
from childhood will come, the parallelogram love
song. Where you spell a greeting in the soup.
That was the unnumbered day, this the numberless one
sweeping collectibles onto its expression. Seeds make
a rocking chair, a moon with no craters in a dresser.
Sift through the lighthouses.
Let’s be drawers.
Jo Wallace’s work is in journals including Conjunctions, New American Writing, Seneca Review, and others. She is a PhD candidate at the University of Cincinnati and editor of Bad Lineage.
Image: Sigmund for Unsplash+
