violet attic

tonight i wash my hair in radio static — the hallway fogs with 1970: clapton kneels over a broken riff that still bites. i mouth the names we never kept, safety pins, summer storms. the city keeps time on a loose belt, cheap constellations in rented glass. 2007 hums through the drywall, golden skans pulsing like moth-wings, soft as a promise i almost believe. i write “i am fine” in the margin and let the ink do the lying.

— buy peaches — find the moon (check behind the laundromat) — tape the poem to the mirror — do not name the feeling — let it pass like a train no one boarded

if you need me, i am on the fire escape teaching the wind my middle name. don’t call up — knock in code.