Current
Issue
Volume 12.2
Jennifer Moore
—
Every Room Has a Temperature
An icicle is a line of thinking.
One solid point, down to a thaw.
Morning puts its voices on.
A sentence stripped of meaning floats along, alone.
The battle’s ongoing: fox in winter, owl in summer.
The war, always about to commence.
Once you said, Can someone else
do the listening for once?
A need to punctuate the statement. That’s where the emotion lies.
More often than not, I do what I should.
Folded jacket, boiled wool.
Is that bulb a soft or a bright white?
Making a game of it, an inventory
of every kind of water: running and boiling,
fire water, ice,
river, reservoir, rose.
I daydream you’re burying your face in my breasts.
Like sending a valentine to a vulture:
please, eat my heart out in an empty sky.
You count every drip from the thaw.
The point of the pointless
is to allow room for.
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