by Eric Overbey

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by Grey Wolfe LaJoie

Thinking of smiling again, I go out into the night, which is hunger, which is, playfully, nothing. The stars sit on their black slab like lint while I wander toward a drugstore, cupping my heart between my hands. The wind tries itself out on me, enters my lungs. I stop to hug a telephone pole as if I'm just about to fall a hundred stories. I fall a hundred stories.

If I spoke to you in riddles this way all the time, then both us kids would get quite tired and grumpy, and possibly so hungry.

I fall a hundred more, or

78 I think of us winding through the night like two colors with a third. No falling or else mad falling, up toward the sky, indelible sky, wry black wish I made when I was born.

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