Nimbostratus You are sad for yourself. When one body blocks light, the movement of the second slows. It is the way of animals who rely on the sun to organize their time. What I am giving you is a commodity — or will be. It means I am still in love with you. It means I have no choice against what you release from billowing columns. The world is exhaust, which is what we’re doing to each other. Your dwellings fill with breath. Step outside to remember that singular smell — against asphalt, my collapsed body.
POETRY | 95
Fiction, poetry, creative nonfiction, and art selected for phoebe's Winter 2019 issue.