anomaly 

a pair of shoes in the 24 hour pawnshop window 
has a dream of running to your face.
my favorite part about new cities 
is the weightlessness.
tonight i am in dayton eating 
red curry in a window with
broken blinds. everyone has a cold
& the air coughs up feathers. 
at a corner store i buy chia pudding 
that makes me feel like i’m eating 
frog eggs. spring is as far away 
as it can get & at night i can taste 
the mushrooms beneath the bark.
you miss me more than you usually do
& i wonder if you know more
or less about me than when we first met.
on the way to the airport the world 
is dark as grass jelly & there are
somehow police everywhere. you text me
that you left your ringer on 
in case i need you. when we first met
i used to call you whenever we were 
apart even though neither of us 
can hear well enough to have 
a conversation. our voices like
butter planes in the dark. 
is there still grapes in the fridge?
was someone in this city here
with as many shovels as me?
i waited for an uber in a square where
just a few years ago there was 
a mass shooting. artists had tried
to make sense of it. i don’t remember 
the title. something about seeds. 
flowers grew. i talked to them.
a little black-eyed susan, asked me,
“is this your face or mine?”
i did not answer. the sun was already 
washing her face. i rolled my eyes 
in sugar. bought a bag of cranberries. 
woke three times in the night 
to look for you.