The coasts are destined to break off from the mainland, a sore hangnail primed for its final rip, so when the Chamber of Commerce rezoned the harbor park near our village metro stop across from a valley of empty condos & we all got jobs working backstock at the Shoppes, I chose the one closest to the water, a shoe boutique specializing in boat friendly soles. As I sort by barcode, John Sterling’s play by play meanders out the radio & echoes thru ceiling high shelf rows set my body width apart, pauses filled by the deep whirr of accelerated tectonic motion under our foundation & the ocean’s resolute purr. He whips up into his signature schtick a little too often, but those outbursts are tentpoles supporting our systematized lilt. I believe the break will be clean because I need the distraction. We’ll float off & bust up the vending machine with a Brannock Device & peel away the glass shards & subsist freely until we abut a new shore. If we just sink I think I’ll hear the signs in time; I’ll escape.
leaky pipes quiet the fire
beneath my sink
. .
assume an oil splatter sustains cause
the drip’s never fully extinguished it
. .
after the basin drains perspiration & dance
patter from the cabinets signal rekindling
. .
shadows lap
across my walls
. .
I count them & hum to songs I swear
I heard elsewhere until it’s too late
. .
run the bath-
room faucet
. .
(a steady
buffer)
. .
insurgent radiance is destined
to assimilate into sunrise
. .
the stream under
girders my dreams
Alex Wells Shapiro (he/him) is a poet from the Hudson Valley, living in Chicago. He serves as Poetry Editor for Another Chicago Magazine, and co-curates Exhibit B: A Literary Variety Show. He is the author of a full length collection of poems, Insect Architecture (Unbound Edition, 2022), and a chapbook, Gridiron Fables (Bottlecap Features, 2022). More of his work can be found at alexwellsshapiro.com
