Sunburnt, red raw and hurting
most everywhere. Medicine
failing. Complaints about
the thermostat, existence,
other things too. A movie
about talking bears,
another about the Second World
War. The moon eclipsing Earth
completely for the first time
since 37 A.D., or around then.
A crew of wild foxes
tore apart the garbage, scattered
chicken bones into the pool.
When it’s this dark, be careful.
A boring sentimentalism: light
reflecting off the distant sea, a light-
bulb aisle enclosed from sunlight. Heat and beams
of radiation, lightness caught in throat
and lung. Received good news today; or, not
exactly good, but not a tragedy.
We’re nauseated, full of poison light.
I’m shivering in bed. You’re dripping down
into my eyes. Your eyes are little bulbs.
You’re always scared you’re sick, and even if
we share some incoherent wrong inside
ourselves, it’s not as though there’s any sense
in visibilities, irregular
abilities to read the blurry bright.
Anthony Hagen is a native of northern Virginia and currently lives and works in Austin, Texas. Recent work can be found in American Poetry Journal and SHARKPACK Annual.