Time-lapsed recorded leaves arc with the soft
Star-light, staining sills & stilling legs leaving
REM, as if performing the wave.
********I haven’t slept
sober. My dreams continue their evenings without me
on a bread-crumbed plate.
********We need to spoon.
The REM-battered twist around each other
thirsty as the leaves recorded
mid-afternoon falling beside the bed sheet,
********as the sound of soft flushing
from a flight above. Their voices & waste are
a sweet interruption. We’ve moved the Russian doll
from the book case. Its succession of
********wooden bodies sounded
like someone was knocking on the door when we stumbled
to piss at night. I miss the flutter. I miss the possibility
of shifting presence. The bodies are always
********sleeping in these poems with the same loss.
First was the imprint of a hand
Now my name is painted on three bridges
& deemed degenerate preservation. It’s no good.
Patrick Redmond received his MFA at Brooklyn College. He currently teaches composition and creative writing at CUNY. Recent work may be found in The Hunger, Silver Pinions, Bomb Cyclone, Prelude, and elsewhere.