Aperçus Quarterly 2.1

Hope, Too, Is a Sickness We CarryEach spring, a childfixed in sickness:sweat, mosquitoes,uneasy delusions.The backed up nightskicked like waves.What else can I say?I reverse the usual tracks,move up like air before dawn,fractured and elusive.The posture of birds, the sandoutside, nails, bottles,the smell of hotel junk.A universe proddedinto the belly of a church.I’m at the verge of you.On a crow’s head,my ear a hollow cave.9