S.A.D.by Kylan Rice I am not a guest & yet here you weep over my feet. Religious hair. Empty jar all night. The moth which doubles as both the small soft ear of the moon & a powdery pharmaceutical. You once told me the greatest grief would be to find the same beautiful plates cracked in half here as everywhere. Appearing in an all-but-forgotten entrance, misled down a hallway of helpless discoveries, you stand in my light, your mouth inventing a cup to catch spring, a favor, a stone that means something. I catch you staring at the out of season berry in your cereal: more a machine than a miracle. I reach out to touch you, your shoulder is a clue that leads me to the next room & then to the next. |