I smoothed out with the day, lit by lamps

steered in, Insisted on premonition, kept

the little heater fed. Waiting for a thought

to appear, Let’s move anywhere, walked

the track into love’s regard. Felt acutely

an imposture. In summer pissing beside

a spider in my stripy shirtdress, I empty

thoughtless, save this wick and sunburn,

Received her forms as spiritual addenda

clipped uncomfortably to my hair. Sought

deep sympathy for the loss of an idea, even

that of my self as consistent, while desires

spurt apart, Host resolving before the beer

not to be important. What is the spirit of this

labor? That doesn’t turn out to much. They

took us on vocation. My phone might die

before the Work extends from me, a Law

of my Nature, leaving only this mature stain,

the color of Pawtucket rosé. Or else the

call goes quiet. Or else the rest is private.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CAROLYN BERGONZO is a writer living in Massachusetts. She has an MFA in Literary Arts from Brown University, and a chapbook, Echoplex (PressBoard Press, 2017).