Forecast

When the self pulls away, it brings pieces of
itself along with it and it as well
	becomes a piece. A kind of bulb, that can
be hung or lit on the opposite tree. The skin follows
	but not just yet. It’s important.
When the dry months start up, that’s when
that bulb blossoms, the fragment
	does itself well in this humidity. The soul
sometimes flourishes, all in
tandem with the stock market. It’s in fashion
	to despise the idea of a soul. They won’t

When the arm pulls away, it tears with it
pieces of cloth, because
	nakedness has always been an option.
The nails are long, carved. Too long
since I’ve seen my arm on-its-own, under the gentle,
sickly light, appreciating
its on-its-ownness. The face pulls away. It
kisses the mirror. Kissing is boring.

	There is a rain that exists
without a source. Pink and naked. The faucet
	perhaps. Nobody believes me.
Miasma rises from the road. Not a thing is misplaced. I’m left
	to put the fabric over it. Spit on the window.
And polish it. Because nobody
	likes how glass
tastes.

When the neighbors pull away, I will not miss them.
They’ve always been
watching me eat.
	And my gypsum face. I think they’re
fascinated because they’re so tired of drinking
up those long afternoons, all-too-long afternoons where
before the sun
	drops they can already feel
a stinging in their eyelashes, that their own
lashes despise
them, and that’s what makes them
fascinated. Ash
without fire. From time
	to time, they should really think
about gardening;
		upkeep. Watering those lashes or something.

When my breath pulls away, I will not
miss i I don’t know. I can’t
	count. But certainly thousands of breaths since
I’ve steeped myself in the air
of this house. Infected myself
into the house. Something so common does not need to be missed.
	The self pulls away. The neck pulls away. The window removes itself
creating another window. The fathers pull away. Wrapped in skin
bags. And then the village. Then

	is the word that helps us understand and process
is our minds de facto
	answering in-the-illusion-of-proper-sequence
such that pain doesn’t come
	in the way we think.
The light of the opposite tree allows.
The hand goes slowly
dead. The houses go dead. Tomorrow I get a
go. My soul in the cloth “in fashion”
will follow. I don’t believe
in thirst anymore. The mirror ends
where the dinner
bell begins.