Carbon dark, invisible as fish in the rain,
what good are our tattoos?
No one can see them.
Disconnected phone numbers,
who would ever call us?
Frictionless, flame-smooth,
one degree above freezing,
we weigh less than ourselves.
It can’t be explained.
Dark matter, unseen as salt on snow.
At the door, you can’t quite tell if we are coming or going.
We pause for a posthumous cigarette
and watch the smoke rise in reverse,
our brilliant enthusiasms, difficult to discern,
our dark designs, undetectable.
Tonight, we drive out to Queens.
The houses, deserts
folded in on themselves,
waiting for something colorful to happen.
This is where the world is.
Every 45 seconds in America,
a house catches fire.
Weather permitting.
San Pedro River Review, Fall, 2011
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