Then I choose the bad part, regularly
misinterpret exchanged glances. Crawling
under the hedge home, I sit and wait
for the orange tint declaring the approach
of the avenging angel. I know peace.
You're below the overhang in the rain,
getting wet. A little herbal for me,
unaccustomed, Wax Monument, what can
a comforter protect us from? Then I tumble
down the elevator shaft, heroic, ungainly.
Then they look like three talons
from an enormous bird. Ignore it till it's
too late is not working out as I planned.
I'm afraid to disappoint this stranger
in the wine store, why? Honestly. Twelve more
things depart while I'm in the secret room
above the office, looking for clues in the
nervous side of your elbow, little spit machine.
How does anyone else do it? I'll wake up
when we hit land, not sure yet if I've felt
employable. You better look out for love.
- Laura Henriksen
