On a Sofa Somewhere Over the Atlantic, by Jonathan Wonham

After Writing in the Light by Jennifer K Dick.

Perhaps history taught us
to mention the day’s

too thin. The rain
stops propped against
our shutters.

Shuddering welds
vibrate,
recording the minutes, the passage
of numbers and circles.

We are drawing over expanses,
failing,
but easily.

Screech.
Regret only the shadow.
Touch the original like wax
after midnight’s fluctuating.

Stay somewhere
between just and simple wondering
and knowing whether
the angled luck of language
is the way.

Did it sure consult? Sure it did.
The city's yellowing scenes
already catching familiar words

are timetables of confusion
pinpointing the tint
of what is still an extensive process at work.

Organic, your hand can range
over the subject, showing how
even a game
might get us there.