Inflating Miro


Miro peered over my shoulder
with bloodshot and owlish eyes
and said to nobody in particular
that we’re all either blobby shapes or dots

we can make it if we try
just the two of us
placed by circumstance
in a room lit by a bonfire filled with
milk jugs and halogen lamps

Miro held his breath and floated to the ceiling
calling down and bitching about the humidity

I closed my notebook and swallowed a sparrow
twitching cold in my beard

Bill Withers crawled from the fire
brushed his leather jacket off
and asked me where she went this time

I dug a tunnel with Bill on my back
searching for the door leading to an aortic chamber
whistling a fishing song
silver pants clutching my ankles

Miro screamed behind us in echo
but we went on
fearing his broad strokes of tuna salad romance

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Filed under poetry, published work

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