Compass Rose

by Josh Tecklin

E. S.

Shrunken fugue, becoming Called good-looking

watchful of the small world, when I'm ulcered and emaciated,

clogged-eye with my cheeks

pressurized, sunken

stasis in the big chamber. and the

Big rubble, rise dogs barking

back into blocks: everywhere I walk.

crowd my roughshod city again.

Across balconies Bristle with the discharge

on the wires, in ingrown ballistic chic; bum

the electric rabble, through the glass, rigor, embalmer,

bubbles come to burst on my nettle-fed, burnt

black fresnel. by the blanks.

Leaking

sweat to the

W. halls, the rash;

Weaving amber runs

in, lane splitting into rock.

in the foot traffic;

cut satisfaction off

my post footwork to N.

pass; running my Get splattered on a

technical fever one way street

in the off a missed

cement skillet look left

with the headphones on, or cop a migraine with the

hitting contrappostos at the in-ears keeping up the

unjayable intersections, ready, heady breakneck.

bloated; language Never clean my glasses

and the blurring gathers thick.

waiting Striding blind with the hip

eons for a host skipping, hissing from the seminar.

in the viscous waters Let them

of the early broth. sizzle in my boiling wake.