slipping past them as fluidly as sound.
The joggers kick my temples with their sweat.
The veiled women dress like burning cities.
Slipping past them as fluidly as sound,
my brain dry heaves at how
the veiled women dress. Like burning cities,
I am the remains of something beautiful.
My brain dry heaves at how
there was a time when it wasn't so stagnant.
I am the remains of something beautiful:
the body has formed over millions of years—
there was a time when it wasn't so stagnant.
But why care? There's grass, and there are trees.
The body has formed, over millions of years,
the constructs of happiness, of meaningful jewelry,
but why care? There's grass, and there are trees,
and thoughts flickering in me like moths.
The constructs of happiness, of meaningful jewelry,
don't speak to people alone on park benches.
And thoughts are flickering in me like moths:
I welcome myself into gardens of strangers,
don't speak to people alone on park benches;
the joggers kick my temples with their sweat.
Justin Davis studies Literature & Creative Writing at Rhodes College in Memphis, Tennessee. He once figured out a Wheel of Fortune puzzle was "Bruce Springsteen's Born in the U.S.A" without any letters. His work has been recognized by River Styx and the St. Louis Poetry Center.
