Description Where It Wasn’t

122 LOGAN BURNS DESCRIPTION WHERE IT WASN’T The small hand, the large hand everything wrong, yellowish longsleeve shirt with three buttons, wind born off the side of the hospital a man in athletic shorts before the setting sun, even the biological heart. That there can be wrong that it is there, here, for us, to be in, inside the sneaker it is dark. You and I drawn from the same drone of air. The swans behind this man, in swan before the same sun. A black mother in beige pants and leather sandals her child on her shoulders in small red overalls, the sun setting behind the two. Held by a muscle in the air—it’s a penny small century part in a row. The penny surrounds the world like something learned by example to make everything a sail blown from the life in a skull as the final color. Wool on wool you are not love where love you appear an odor 123 hair on the stone patio. It was just something that happened today. The fawn rose like slow scaffolding for nothing to see it, nothing will ever see it. Thing will happen tomorrow. When I’m finally shown my body I can hold my mind I can pick up a cardboard box I thought was heavy, but is full of air. The green glass packed away it’s like the brain migrates across the mind the harder things. Pass hand over hand to conjure a coin like fucking blood—power to make right all the way down, rain, I can’t judge it—the ways I can illustrate what happened but can’t form an expository analysis. I can hold up a slice of watermelon so thin that I can see the slate roof of the neighbor’s house through it. A woman through a cigarette and a bag of groceries. The air underneath the foot who thought a step was there all the way through sex via the stone on the universal ground. 124 A dried sea horse in a bouquet of chalky shells on a white shelf above the clear water of a stopped sink. It was forever because it killed itself it is elusive. Colors all night the rain hung off an eave to see an ending that had no subject. I didn’t want to go, I just wanted to care for different things. Red and gray, your head is scarred, your brain is gone, the gold is here, only motion, ever metaphor. You remember the sun? You smell it on the dirt and loose pine needles. You were born again off the breeze of a person walking by. You held your breath so you couldn’t smell them and take them in. You are a person on a bike path in a watercolor rendering of a proposal for a planned community. Outlined in black ink, a pale blue pushed on a drop of water. The drop sits in a nook on the rough paper keeps the small epic, “Hey, it’s me.” You wore a day of your life necklace. ...