Joe Milazzo’s gorgeous fragments in the inaugural issue of Zoo Cake Press.
I know it, I will pass in recesses, I will be the quotient
of your pains. I will take my leave of going away,
of tidying, of reattaching, of mending the button
eyes and unravelling hands of what we were when I—
a motor not belching black from oil, only framed and
furnaced that awfully—stood behind you. You really think we
have somewhere to be. I know it. You have no view of what pants
at my neck, how, in the distance, the ankles gape and the shoes
crumple. The laces flicker like scissors, or serpents threshing
hay tall and dry. You don’t hear how the horses’ hooves fall
and you can’t taste how each spray of dust
fuels me with rainbowed barbs.