Christopher Citro Right Like Yellow Along a Banana

The bird on the step is in shadow until

it twitches and suddenly parts of it are lit

a golden brown. Sometimes it's the tail,

sometimes the left half of beak and tail.

The clouds are rolling the wrong direction,

but I'm not going to be the one to say.

I had my usual nightmares last night, but

I'm not having one now, which I cling to

the way the atmosphere grips the earth.

Have you ever paid close enough attention

to the whooshing sound it makes rushing

into a vacuum-packed jar of peanuts?

When I woke this morning I immediately

felt pounds lighter. Upstairs on my side

of the bed now there's an impression

of me, dozens of pounds of meat-weight

pressing down that you can't see, but if

you place your hand there, you'll feel

the coolness of my absence. The bird

whose noise is making the noises

all the other birds do is behind me

in the cottonwoods above my shoulder.

Sunlight's landing on everything now,

my knees, my tea, the grass around me,

and it isn't making any noise as it hits,

not a plink, not a quiet little crush.


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