struck down / I really can’t do weed
making hot tea; gone cold. Copter
sounds circle the city, buzzards soaring
around the wildebeest, faltering. Stuck
on the train for hours as the rain drowns
down. yet
another beautiful day. Not picking up
the phone because I know what it will
say. It tells me you got too high and it
was all resting on a pinpoint, balancing
on your brilliance, which cannot last.
I don’t even believe this yet
wormholes in the wood weaving wandering
ways through the rain.
a white shopping bag drifts through an azure
so pure it might be water, an aeronautic
cnidarian like my boyfriend’s dad believes
drift above us, bioluminescent, getting
caught in spyplane photographs.
it would be easy and simple to become
convinced of something wrong and
maybe I’ve given myself brain damage
permanently. maybe the trains will never
run again and maybe they’ll poison the water.
endwell is an androgyne writer, composer, artist, and researcher originally hailing from unceded Onondaga territory (Central New York). Their poetry has been published previously in As It Ought To Be Magazine and Angel Rust Mag. They are also the author of four poetry zines, which can be found at endwell.itch.io. Find their other work at virgilsbirds.wordpress.com.