Curtis Rogers



I’m up to something else’s old
tricks. Rising from flamingoed

ashes to show you to
your seat. To show you your

ashes I rise from, blurred
out by post-production.

Comfort with pushing
110 in the wrong lane

takes me on its knee.
Act change the vertical

slash in our face signals.
We stop to catch our breath

in branching glades. Edgeless
tufts of brunt or whetstone.

If you seem larger from
farther away, I dunno.

I shine you down
the aisle of a pre-show

theater. Gloves white
enough to crib oceans.

I show you to the seat I
shoot out of my garden

hose. Please, sit. As if
you weren’t already,

drum your fingers on
my ancestors. Ash

is the inside source
that leaks you. Fig

leaf of going fast
dumbs down for us,

us. Thumbnailing
stretch of beach-

front. Pucks back
like a rubber band

in the side mirrors.
What we can’t make

out, we are. We’re
awaiting our details

from the comfort
of our seats. The show

that’s gearing up to go
is on repeat. Your/my

shirt I wipe your sweat
up with, who cares.



A boy slips a note beneath
a door that was his, & is.
The white-turned wave dislocates.
Search result leaking froth. A boy
picks a note off the floor of
the room he’s been let into.
What he’sn’t written yet
sounds familiar. Rupture that joy
rides through boiling surf. His
hand burns white & then unmoors.
Slips it beneath his door
to wave himself inside.



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