Here’s two more from James:
Vital signs at zero, a squiggly line gone infinity–
guess what I’ve prepared for. An eternity of this
nothingness. I tossed the phone like a grappling
hook at your distance and it caught. You left it
hanging on the bricks, though, and moved to
California, where I used to sleep the streets in
my Ford Fiesta, the same car we drove to Melt:
a time bomb heart attack. How close we were
back then, each deep-fried grilled cheese bite
hushed the thrumming. Fingers greasy– wiped
on napkins, wiped and wiped and wiped.
Every suburb needs a callous-
fingered harpist to bleed heaven
from her hands from her driveway,
to raindrop angels into puddles
after storms of indifference.
Imagine: lawns grow in
the pizzicato of days first plucked,
then plodding. Homes, once full
of promise, rot– bricks erode
to the sharp of strings
slowly falling from the sky.