Byron Kanoti
Piece by piece, the local amusement park forfeits its thrills to flatbeds—
I forget traffic [one amputated leg—all studded with sockets—of a terrific arachnid
slides away to new suitors] like a prize. I forget how appalling
oceans are to the shipwrecked [some immaculate and hysterical knowledge]
like bizarre water flailing over the limit of a two-dimensional world.
I forget who invented salt [rendered in rivers swimming with swords]
as if they could outlive its invention. I forget why glaciers. I forget passengers’
impatience [no one knows it—immobilized by strangers—but the strangers]
like one day disowning its empathy for the next. I forget whether or not
raptors have a decent theory of altitudes [our eyes donating their allotted
tricks and jokes for sadness’ sake] like a funeral where you wished
into a well full of souls. I forget how to achieve sleep [a weak history
of extinction ensuring us it is not over] like some dumb song. I forget insisting
on science [nightfeeders fingering their deepest creases] like a god is listening.
