i erased the map and was simplified. a faint ringing held
in my jaw. even at the rounded part of earth, the sun
hardly any light at all
on what i had to change. i thought: i want tornados in the channel; i want to scale the force that guides us from
the farthest point to farthest point away from one another,
and obey it.
how jointly the weathervane spins
envisioned from the gleaming window then on
across the oval mirror inside the frame:
the tips flicker: now the fade,
now the nocturne
it fused and remelted,
messed up into a memory of sex as an algorithmic keyword,
an uncertain reflection of something metal rotating in a window across the little alley from my larger window,
Louise Akers is a poet living in Brooklyn, NY. She earned her MFA from Brown University in May of 2018, and the Rosemary and Keith Waldrop Prize for Innovative Poetry in 2017.