here comes the sound of the sun, wilting. i just remembered wishing, i just remembered spare parts. & then my mouth closing tighter than ever before. i said nothing. & then, accidental leaves. & then, accidental house-space. this is the house, this is me wishing for elsewhere.
i mean the breath of a full chest is almost like the park you can run through it you can play outside you can sweat until you fall down & stop breathing then your chest is empty then the park is empty.
these are the colors i would like to see invented: cutting down animals; empty silhouette; invisible child; wet room.
the field has
memory loss the
field has apoplexy
the field has organs
to begin with & so
it can be blamed for
accused of striking down
one time i invented the field i called it an empty silhouette i traced its lines & colored outside them i threw the field away. goodbye, field. goodbye small organ space i never fully acknowledged, anyway.
Sarah Cook writes and sleeps and talks in Oregon.
Her chapbook SOMEWHERE THE / SHAKING was released last week by above/ground press.
the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan