I’ve never received an eviction notice.
These days, I shake uncontrollably every time
I think of the tactile universe. It’s been
eons since my hands were peripatetic.
Back then my body was a remote spaceship
fueled by lust and network technology.
In bed in first light, I turned towards my own
visage in the reverse setting on my phone
camera, arrows flipped. Outside now, I take
photos of everything insignificant: ragweed,
roadside forsythia, dandelion clocks over-
running a drainage ditch—ghost seed.
This year, brood x cicadas are emerging
in swarm or celebration, depending on
whom gets asked: entomologist or civilian.
On subways, I think of walking. When I walk,
I think of trains. Radiant city, your shine
whips through me with machinic consistency.
I talk to my body like it’s a house on the market.
When my mouth opens, there are sucking parts.
This is not a plague of locusts with their
pharaoh pharaoh call. This is our promised
summer. Someone has waived the inspection.
Someone has made an offer far above asking.