specular glass

by Damon Hubbs

It’s night

The planets spin in reverse

I made marinara

and sent a postcard to an ex

She used to be a debutante       now she’s avant-  garde

The Italian Rail Network interludes with Arabs

There are heavy clouds and earwigs, cobra gold joint exercises

renegotiating boundaries

God is no director —he’s a butcher;

besides, you introduced him to the band,

the collective lyric of religious ribs,

the sea, the canon, the Fiats of Italy.

Somebody said you were floating on a dolphin’s tail

in the Aegean

or was it a bat, I can’t remember…

Or was it a bat, I can’t remember…

in the Aegean

Somebody said you have teeth like laughing piano keys

The planets spin in verse

Scusa il ritardo

The last time I made you carbonara

there were cathedrals everywhere

Vita nova, the keys of Saint Peter.

I sent a postcard to an ex and signed it       Daria Nicolodi

O who is copying whom in women’s clothes

The speedboat of infiltration stops right on a dime

like a shock

via airmail, I lost all my lira.

It’s night. It’s night.

In Rome I stay away from windows.

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