← v8n2, Fall 2009
Poetry · Volume 8, Number 2

The Singing

I welded myself between the days

of January, February. But they sang

as I boiled parasites from the bath.

They sang as I lowered into that water.

I wanted a blue night with blue-white rings,

lifts of smoke-light from the centuried houses.

To be on the balcony with Josh,

with Martin and Rose, watching smoke from chimneys.

I wanted to see others alive

and count myself among them.

But they sang as I boiled parasites

from the bath. They sang

as I lowered into their water.