Portrait of a Worker from the Factory Where Clouds Are Built

I am on a crew that works on clouds. We have been sculpting a mammatus as of late. I am the one who paints it pink.

Sometimes I think I hear lightning chrome screams inside of me, when the moon reveals itself to be nothing but a teratoma.

I have not been sleeping well. I have seen the inside of a heart, learned the emergency of my life was having an emergency.

In others’ words, I am haunted by Eurydice. By doves on fire falling from the sky.

When I walk through parks in the middle of November

I see orange angels crucified on the trees.

For she said, as we dropped our love, “Evolving,” “Alone.”

Take it, look at it: consider how briefly the apple’s beauty is going to last.

There are holes in my wooden arms like the marks abductions leave behind.

But I pass the port of Morrow. I hear a tumbling in the sky.