Orbits

They must be running out of cemeteries.
Or maybe I’m thinking information.

I held up the phone and left a message
of ambient office noise for my sister,
spinning slowly on a computer chair.

I worry about the bad thoughts I haven’t had yet.
The true depth of their depravity.

Last night, someone drove under the window
blasting shitty hip-hop at 4 am, tearing off mirrors
like a river carrying away stones and white light.

My sun theory of language postulates
that every word is in fact an atom
burning up in the nuclear suns of our chests.

Don’t fuck with my song
a woman on the subway says
to the guy next to her.
Listen: “I don’t know
where I’m going,
but I know how
to get there.” That’s
what I’m talking about.

River of vowels, river of getting over it.
River of that shiny spot just behind language
where words go in pairs to find
other kinds of balance. That’s
what I’m talking about.

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