for golds.

there’s a horizontal diptych on a fuscia hinge as far as i see.
one, two, three, lightning, four, five, six, seven, rumble, eight, nine;
it sighs.

i had bratwurst for dinner.
i had premium beer.
i brushed the leftovers from my teeth
and put soapy hands on my face,
then wiped the day away.

somewhere between thoughts and dreams,
i saw the words
“this is not a storm.
it’s the end of something.”
i’m full of time spent in the middle, in averages… autonomy.

evaporating sirens outside moan
between claps and rush to someone elsewhere
i remain opaque, still, and sleepless.

one
two
three
pulse
four
five
six
seven
pulse
eight
nine…

this is not a storm
but my long flat line.