by Michael TeigIn a light rain flowers light the highway where everyone's motor is already running. The world is baroque: my apartment is small. America is monstrous. The phone rings in everyone's pocket, but I remove my feet. I'm finished. For a long time a rat in the wall, a dog in a panic, an abandoned season by the sink to which the moon makes an excessive offer. Yesterday's moth broke down on the sill. Yesterday's headlines flattened like veterans. One dumpster, four pigeons. All manner of men.
