- Temp Job
Then I dress, reduced to the adorableand ornery. Perpetual prism of gigs disguised
as cherries in a bag. Come over, ghostcomposer, and sweep these cowlicks down.
Salt crusts the curb far from home. Anoise sasses the forehead, making us devour
more prom and run for the lot: missedrent, mother will not move, popped a tire.
-
Again I surf the listings. With gaps big enough to pore through, the quiltis basically a net, not a cover. And what use for a cover but weight. Whatuse for covers but illusion of true topology.
-
How else to discern what whirs? Thatresists a comb and gets our generator going
could be tendril or a bird, fists soft forimprobable punch. We cannot be more watts.
I want to take you by richer tissuedebloat our cheeks of dynamo then fuse.
It made sense until I stopped humming.It did make sense until I turned off the stream. [End Page 86]
Olivia Sio Tse's poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Second Factory, Bennington Review, and Brink. She is a recent graduate of the Iowa Writers' Workshop.