A man styles his hair by a million
unnamed agonies. Hears the car horn,
the swear flare, the biting chest — all
insults injure “the self,” which is bullshit.

Everything else is Weather, torn flesh,
“Reality.” I am a mountain, and by I
I mean the shoreline, the sea-bed, the
cup that cradles the injured storm.

How can she wear those pants? Here,
let me tell you: being happy only once
in a while. Her summer being past &
future miseries you’re normal not to know.

Rafting between ATMs, you come to
love the raft. Holding on to your pud, you
yearn for a wood-paneled MacBook Pro
to hold your porn. I want to hold you

while you’re hating, but you won’t think it
proper in the fight for more things.
Now, if you crane up, the power lines shoot
through the trees, & the leaves, the

branches, they let them

Spencer Gordon is a co-founding editor of the Puritan, and the author of Cosmo (Coach House Books, 2012). This fall, The Emergency Response Unit will publish Anno Zombie Dance, his third chapbook of poetry.