ATOMS IN THEIR ORBITS
By Aaron Anstett
The particulars of remembering, spray
of water beyond the singularity of its gravity-
defying thrust, color of carpet hairs
under fingernails, or screech of laughter
one hotel hallway at an ice machine?s
languid rumbling, or the house of my childhood
haunted by what menace, mysterious
injuries. Gingerly, the wind, with hints
of vanilla, tobacco, wet stone, continues
over whatever Texas road down which a thin
dog falters, brothel, your skin,
public wall on which hand-scrawled messages appear,
grass seldom slept on well or long, skeleton
in the mountains after the thaw, glass
shattered on asphalt, many glittering windows.
-- Aaron Anstett