POEM IN WHICH I DO NOT TELL MY ENEMIES HOW LONG I’VE BEEN STARING AT THIS GRAPEFRUIT TREE

4 a.m., doors of glances open and swing shut,
these eyes inside the television looking

real alone. Empty eyes, the size of pennies.
Outside a dying oleander, a cigarette—

crows decorate their nests with rosebuds
& tiny arrow heads. I’m on a plane inside

the mouth of angry clouds slipping in
and out of silences. The slow oath

of erosion. The promise of loss. Everything
fading in and out of the light. I sleep

in a delicate invisible neurosis. I see
the deal made with tied hands. And the dotted

line signed in red ink. The fire ants that crawl
from the notary’s sleeve. For all this

to be yours, angels fall & weep. Do you know
where humming birds go to die?

These shadows untie scars out of body
until everything is night. There can only

be one moon. With the jaws of life I open
the eyes of a north wind, seeing her closer—

the light fragments all tenses of absence.
Maybe I’ll slice the avocados and wait for

the soil to soften. Do you know how many
worlds a grapefruit falls to?

Casimir Wojciech was born and raised in Northern California and now lives in the Sonoran Desert. His poems are published at Bone & Ink Press, Empty Mirror, Writing the Polish Diaspora and elsewhere. A member of Silver Pinion and currently working on a debut manuscript, he tweets micro-poems and bursts of reverie at @relicwindows.

featured image: Bob Modem

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