A purple yoga mat left unrolled all morning
Tapping the hearts between photographs
Like a dark mood your push notifications engulf me
Nike Run Club and the murmur of a playground in yew trees
I press my ear to its mouth and know
The world has a secret code which is almost always silent
I was eating kimchi and rice in a cool park breeze
He was showing off a muscle in his outer right wrist
As you talk, the lip gloss starts shim-shim-shimmering
From bed the sound of Phillip Glass, a crowd of children playing hopscotch, and you counting each breath slowly
The black laptop screen catches sunlight and I remember
Clear green bottles that stubble our rooftop each night.
I stumble through a pedestrian alley at midnight
With a can of green plum juice in each hand
I just feel like an empty elephant, a clumsy something that paws at treetops as it floats through the sky.
I open a new tab and search for Patterns In A Chromatic Field
Still filled with self-anger to have liked your GoFundMe but not clicked the link
I walk around the apartment and press my forehead against the wall
Is the relationship between aroma and love
The same as to memory?
I stood in the shower with that bar of lavender soap
Letters from Mark and Alma bang into my afternoon
Breathing in that cool taste, like water
I wanted to be at your wedding but the feeling was banished
In the bathhouse at Trumpworld, the news feed was shapeless
A speech at the DMZ, a death in Boston
The television grew bigger between clouds of steam rising
Brown jumbo eggs draped across the pan
A New Girl streaming
As your body shakes with quiet headphoned laughter
Zachary Cosby was born in Oregon and lives in the Republic of Korea. He edits Fog Machine.