The blood of the rich is full
of strange furniture. On another channel the powerful
mistake pleasure for paradise. Horses cross
a beachfront of flues. It’s getting harder to read,
the lens of my eye thinning
like an atmosphere.
In bed I feel my other senses rally
at the borders of sight. My hand reaches for some boundary,
the line of your body
and the night surrounding us locked together
like a zipper’s teeth.
At dawn we wake between two horizons.
Malibu burns. We fold the linens
like two believers bound
for the reliquary. The guest room windows
are shaped like keyholes. One light rises to meet the other.
Describe the smoke for me.
Nicholas Yingling’s work has previously appeared in Fourteen Hills, Rock & Sling, Written Here: The Community of Writers Poetry Review. He grew up outside San Francisco, received his MA from UC Davis and lives in LA with his partner and dog (they take turns sleeping).
See more of his work in 7.1