To Code Means We Have to Cut Skylights

James D'Agostino

Here in the mile-wide swath
pinched in between don't hurt

bad and don't feel too good,
either A) the heart's a bowling
alley and I'm just another guy

with four shoes or I don't
even want to think about B).

What do you call that?
It's just Tuesday. 7:50 or so
the sun solders its arc up

above the oaks so it's squint
city. It's writing with my eyes

closed. It's fine. I can't see
a thing in these sheets. Girls
slip by, scissors dripping

sunlit sorghum. But it's okay.
Be and seem seem to have

worked all that out. Dragon
flown, sunburnt, heat simmers
birds to speak monkey. A street

singer strings her trellis of trouble
and peace. I figure all I've got

to do is describe every face
and then we'll all be in here.
Watch your head.

James D'Agostino is the author of Slur Oeuvre (New Michigan Press) and Nude With Anything (New Issues Press).  He lives in Iowa City and Kirksville, MO, where he directs the BFA Program in Creative Writing at Truman State University.