The Truth About Northern Lights
I’m not right. I’m interfered with and bent as light. I tried to use the spots, for months I tried with rings. Only now I’m thinking in cracks that keep a modern light lunged. I keep the porch light on to burn you off in ghosted purls, the licks of which filament me. My Day-Glo tongue’s cutthroat. Though I’m not clear, I’m a sight whose star stares back: it’s a new kind of dead; it hides its death in my cinched testicle. That bright burr makes me unreal and itch. By the time I’m something else, you’re making weather with so-and-so. Drama tenants you; it wades in queasy waves, mottled to the marrow.
by Christine Hume courtesy poets.org