Wrong Heaven Again

Ryan Eckes

Wrong Heaven Again, says the rabbit to the real estate. The poem won’t go away. You drive the car to work for an earth of its excrement. When the boss says “flexibility,” the grave keeps singing. The grave keeps singing, who built this city, that city? Who speaks for you when you speak? The latest apple ad says “let loose.” Okay. Light is a capital blown apart. No spoilers. You write your name down on the envelope and it disappears. We discuss thirst. We discuss our service to the revolving door. To the wound. We smile and pretend to compete with each other for a while. The sun cracks open the street, waves of old work now seething free of “the work.” And what are we, stepping out of this mouth, one dream after another.

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