COM TRUISE by Matthew Mayberry

It’s hard to see a concert

without crazy eyes. You

could miss the ocean

for the elbows. The way

you sink like a dead lion

in a dogged sea. And maybe

somebody will look at you

watching the people. Waving

their arms in the air to dance,

or else around them, to jockey.

To see the cartoon peanut up

above the performer

commanding everybody

to flip a little birdie, just

because. They look at you

and think you are staring

at nothing. It’s fun

to see them see you see through

them as if the precious thing

they’ve reconciled to the wind

were not the wind. As if the wind

were but a season’s rasp. A misery.

To hear them, these total strangers, ask

are you doing okay? Concerned

for their own safety in your

eyes. As if you were doing

anything. As if they were

okay. To hear them say,

these people who couldn’t tell

an asshole from a moon,

are you on acid? As if

you still need acid. As if you

could lather again in something

as basic as yourself without

the hide sloughing off.

As if the bones already

rattle in a graceless

fit of wind. As if any starling

could resist cold recreation

in the scrapings of your blight.