Dillon J. Welch



Every unpleasant thought is a gift
shop in the Airport or the year of the small fire
in the Christian fiction aisle where we felt
wild with humanitarian glee. I was tossed aside
in a Brussels’ sun-shower. I was vacant
with portable wander, until we stole
a bed in the hostel downwind. The night
we couldn’t sleep so you held
a sponge above the one stove in the house.
Brandywine leaves caught in the throat
of a basin, the drain backed up
all the way to Bruges. We keep a rustic
heirloom from the estuary and steep
a promise ‘til it’s silver in tea. Carolina
will never miss us. Carolina is a trashcan
outside of a Waffle House. Make no mistake:
we will plant ourselves honest and suddenly
fearless in front of a once-moving car, pulled
to the curb like some dumb proclamation.



are not the first to wish Florida
would secede from the Union. That lines
be drawn and tides reset. Parallels.
Fishing wire caught in a propeller
twisted. Standing portside and shouting
at the sunset. Hear this: an ode the shape
of a firing line. To the half-full can of uncovered
fridge-tuna! To commemorative insomnia or
That Noise In The Vent! To almost falling back
on the endless escalator! The old joke is that
you’ll tumble forever and never know how
or when to depart. Like a cruise liner stuck
in the formidable jetty. Passengers rescuing
chairs from the deck. The old joke is the brass
will sink but the wood might float. Know that you
are not the lone resident with a perfectly orange life
preserver garroting
_______________a buckshot heart.



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