When I was young every space had a secret room inside
Now I shoot up candy-shaped pills in front of a Coldstone
Below freezing lemon trees at sea level
There’s a man disappearing at the end of that branch
The grass is dead trampled—I’m sitting on a dry patch worrying at the curdling sky
My body breaks into a waft of balloons
I hope you recorded my voice
I hope my letters reach you in time
I hiss to my neighbor a gaggle of numb words
He says that he’s proud of how I turned out
The hour has neither auspicious signs nor dense gardens
I climb the stairs to the wilting apartment and wait for my tongue to unravel
I sit in a field and drink until I vomit
Colin Partch is a poet living in Los Angeles with five cats, two rabbits, and partner Phoebe. He edits the literary journal Second Stutter with Solomon Rino. He likes reading and writing about psychoanalysis, stuttering, and alcoholism.
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