[Not one to feel drained in the evening—punctuated by a leavened vibe—I thought you deadened by preheat heaving ]

Calmly placing silverware on the porch I commit to. There aren’t bees enough to pick them up and 

cuff the day in border.

And cough that way as hoarder is a promise I make when waking—I toss in the mornings like a receipt 

being printed.

Is there contempt for babies who only move their eyes and leave their bodies still like lukewarm milk in 

a glass?

Could blend a pastiche for those as when I consider poison at moments inopportune. The buses aren’t 

moving

the shaven bare and my hair drying on its own. The rabbit’s fur on the torch glints and reflects in the 

pic you send captioned “v magic”.

There are so many chores that fall on me like a lady of the lake pulled back down into her thick green 

soup.

Who pays rent to do more than balm angel hair on the mortar I’ve been committed to, am at the 

commencement of?

Don’t be like that, I could say. Cheer myself up, buy something small. You are one to talk. You are the 

only one I talk to.

Ellen Boyette is a poet and essayist whose work is interested in the occult, the internet, annd objects real or imagined. She received her MFA in Poetry from the Iowa Writers’ Workshop in 2019. Her first book of poetry, BEDIEVAL, was a finalist at Slope Editions Books, CSU Press, and Inside the Castle. Her work appears in the Action Books blog, jubilat, The Columbia Review,  Denver Quarterly, Prelude, Bennington Review, poets.org, and elsewhere.