by Nick Rizzuti
I read a heavy and unrewarding fog about
isolation and violence. If I die here
please send a message to Earth that
the ceiling fans are tyrants and
the ironing boards are tyrants and
ice is tyranny
A ball of glacier flesh in the sky
thaws in the sun and the villagers on the inside
have their eyes wide open and
the villagers below are busy working on a huge
iron umbrella when they should be
dragging out mattresses and medicine
If I was a rapper this is where I would make a pun on
ice-olation. Then I would go home
re-heat my Indian food
and sleep,
on a twin xl.
The twilight descends like blood
flowing from the heart
to warm the feet.