You're going to miss it here, how the blue
breaks through gray clouds, how babies reach for your nose, how they laugh and scare, how
many steps it takes to cross everything that's gone. At night the blues awake—a saw of sinking enterprise, a hole of comfort and
sleep.
Animals stir in the corners, but you are done with corners. The rich cool earth beneath your feet, the girls who suck hickeys on your neck.
You can taste it as it leaves, the hay loft,
the hands that know to touch, everything to touch,
the warm waves when Lake Huron goes summer rough.
Ice cream is the way to locate Earth, sideways from the moon—a vacuum that takes and takes.
Rob Spiegel is a
writer living in New Mexico. His poetry, fiction, and journalism have appeared
in publications ranging from Halfway Down
the Stairs and Psychotic Meatloaf to
Rolling Stone and True Confessions.
