Lately I’m not feeling like myself.
I'm haunted by the sensation I'm forgetting something.
Some days I am covered in it; I must go outside, pick a direction, start moving.
I love a fatal flaw, but what of that?
I spend whole weeks moving!
Just dive into a landscape—the worse the weather the better.
Blustery. I've seen landscapes so vertical
two seasons seem to meet in the middle
and French kiss. I play the typical song over and over.
Acceptable landscapes: meadows, shopping centers, public gardens,
aquariums, atriums, museums, neighborhoods
full of one type of house, parlors—
Is this cinematic yet?
I surrender so much the words break down like links in a watch.
But not limited to.
I gather a container of ephemera: Graffiti, painted over in beige.
Misspelled theater marquees.
If I can't say what I'm waiting for, then am I?
Anyway, what’s it built from?
Emma Ruth Wilson (she/her) is a Midwestern poet. She makes zines, collages, and comics. Her Instagram is @lambxlamb.