the pleats in the drape of my tragic disposition where my love hides

By Eli Marcus

a broken lamp taped together in the corner of my room summer bugs at night when leaving a lover’s car while the inside light is on and the door is open—say, in August persimmons, plums, pomegranates the nothing after a morning started in the afternoon a melodica from my father (from his) from Germany children on asphalt, dipped in chlorine and drying in radiation wind against wet hair, frizz that follows three hats—lilac, ochre, moss—all crocheted six months apart the wearing down of the inside of my right shoe, the sole pulling away at the heel the way hot oil turns white onion translucent, the way soap cleans day from hands