Haven’t taken it to the head for a minute on another
three day bender. Slept past sunrise. And then another.
The bed has softened over the years, the stoop steps chipped.
Shanties clog memory: was it your most recent love, or another?
Bangladesh is continually interrogated by floods, you tell me.
Your reflection a mist; the mist a shadow; the shadow some other.
Cracked clay riverbeds sound like a cross between square and
sawtooth waves. Always, we want the frequency to be another.
Late last night the house made a drawing of itself: bones, skin,
and a hat. It preferred famine over feast. Liar. It consumed another.
Dear Sound Wave, while sobriety arpeggiates, is reshaped by blurring
filters don’t think too much of any of us. This dissonance becomes another.
© 2019, Bojan Louis. Poem-a-Day, 11/7/19, Academy of American Poets.