Type B


I should've had a father
who had a father
and so on.
Anxiety Building Room 204
Diseased. Falling fast.
I can feel the spill
and the crash of the red glass.
What's more, you are my illusion
of a captured process, pink flowers
fill the field under Tuscan blood
and a waterfall of goldenrod sky
and a scythe reaping the mass.
An altar of raining iron,
electrified oceans, failed stars.

Spires take care of the station,
a checkpoint of potential brine
and certain tight orbit,
the spaces outline a minaret,
while the mostly rose-stained paintings offer clues combed from the carpet
on a particular early morning
with nothing to come down with.

Slept for days, through the caterwauls
of my panicked Chelsea cat.


- Andrew Early