Weight falls like miles beneath our tires.
Rest is a day that hasn't come,
though we mark it each month, hoping.
Lines form around our eyes as though
they were once much larger, and the sun
has shrunk them and condensed their contents.
Noise fills the eyes as well
as the ears, stretching from our door—
a snake's belly rubbing
the linoleum-covered concrete of the grocery
store, the carpet at work, worn by lines
of shoes, all stamping out
an oroboros, their eyes on its scales, each
painted with advertisements for
healthcare none of us can afford.
Eating out is a good way to say I love you
when there's someone else at whom to stare.
Let someone younger earn the tip
by keeping the glasses of our evenings filled
so we can sip away the time until bed
while we keep the air full of the noise
of our minds winding down.
Fall into the flour smelling bosom of maturity.
Skin pale, doughy. Vanilla. Hair blonding.
The nipped fingers of youth harden, shrink
like uneaten fruit. Cells die. The ones
that remain spread like splayed toes
to fill the space.
(Originally in, I believe, Press 1)