Plus One

Plus One

When you are alone,
who are you with. Who
can you babble to about
the building’s missing
epidermis, the red bricks
tumbling out at the roots.
Thinking is a type of
telling, of tattling.
Not like a megaphone,
more like how the air
above a flame crinkles
and blurs with energy.
Your halo is showing,
yo. A man once stopped
me, told me he was worried
about my aura, it was all
orange around my shoulders,
a bright backpack of pain.
How much do you hurt
right now. What if every
thought we stomped out
smoldered along our heels.
What might that mean
for the thoughts we allow
and how we advertise them,
would we be fire hydrants
dribbling image, hoses
spattering the sidewalk under
us with undeveloped film.