Fuck it, these semis are going to move I swear
I know where I’m going
these woods are like constellations:
of course that’s not a crab
of course that’s not a belt
and you can’t tell me that’s a fucking hunter
that’s gas and potting soil up there and
how come everybody calls it space
but nobody believes it everybody
describes the wildest party
they’re giving out moons
they’re throwing asteroids at mailboxes
I’m a mailbox
all these bills belong to other people
I called all the senders
they’ve all cried so much they’ve lost their voices
please change all the light bulbs
you have to slam the door
sleep the windows unless you’re
out of pills believe me
you don’t want to run out of pills.
I would rather have the music on
especially when the windows are open.
Go ahead,
be winter from concentrate
until it hurts at this point,
you will want to close the window.
Do not close
anything open everything
tunafish cans storm cellars especially
any surface that covers anyone
making love to anyone or thing else
open walls and shower curtains
floos, joints, eyelids, frames, open
faster and faster, needles, steak knives
should be opened before being stuck
in light sockets, light sockets should be
stuck sideways whenever winter becomes
more than one color, why
is it always more than one color
why is it never any other way
why is it perfect
when it should be unhinged
Adam Cogbill's short stories have been published in or are forthcoming from Ampersand, Slow Trains, Word Riot, and other publications. He has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. He is an MFA student at the University of Massachusetts Amherst. He is currently working on a collection of short stories.