Andrew Spiess

Ivy climbs up
the resilient trunk
of an oak tree,
choking, but
there is no struggle.
Light barely touches
the cracked bark
as the ivy wraps
around gnarled arms.
There will be no blossoming
of leaves in the spring
for the staggering branches,
but the leaves of the vines
will always glint
and cover and thrive.

Watch the air cook
On the bricks of a wall and simmer
In the sunlit spaces outside
For hours
Until it changes into a thick black.

There is a natural grease
Coating my eyes as well as the world,
Helping me easily slip
Into soft sleep,
Plummet into a solid dream.

Gather 200 people
To push the earth so it mills
On its axis with madness
Until everyone has lost
A year of life.

Do not shake machine. Shake hands.
Grazing the walls with my palms,
I tend to leak between cracks and fingers.
How big is the gap between two sets of eyes?
Nothing means everything anymore.

Spend a night coughing
Behind a stranger.
Do not speak or make eye contact.
Do this often with different people
And develop a glaring affection.

An ellipsis and I hear the clock tick like whiplash.
Eyes wander towards the edges
of the yellow pages, I pay attention
to the ringtone of neon augmentation:
concrete fingers reaching up to
the wild sky growling over
a dense metropolis. A heavy gauntlet
cups the limitless muzzle.

Stirred into the platinum mass
I spend my curiosity pacing
Through revolving doors made of intangible glass,
scuffed boots smudging the smooth floor.
People shift in endless cycles like moths
beating against each other by the streetlamps,
like black and gray flecks on the television.