by Emily E. Goff

Of light, it was the final
three syllables.
Going awry, rocking
premonitions in our arms as if
to convince shredded cobwebs of their
potential, as if to transform sleight of
hand into a few nameless children whose laughter
flings unneeded air
at a silent
sky. And a new tiny, blinding button
washes up on the shore each morning—
from the dress of a doll whose house is lying
at the bottom of the sea.
There may be a reason I used to scream
in my sleep                       be quiet,
                a reason I still plug my
ears as I run up the stairs.
Hence the five books open
at once.
I told my mother that I
was doing homework at the coffee shop, but instead
I thought
in the cemetery.
Warbles read my stillness with their silence.
No relatives, friends,
or even acquaintances
Fingering air, fabricating aurora
noise. Incidentally. In
vain. Method to the
forsaken picnic. Some cicadas’
Someone must be watching from
Blue slate roof rising towards a bruise.
A bridge that’s still
a bridge even if
no feet use it.