My mouth ascends to your volcanic plateau.
I up and down your curls as if a stormy sea voyage. Grope you forensically.
The movie is a loud, intermittent crisp. Sometimes I think the seat exists.
Anxiety whispers, take this coil of rope, you will accomplish nothing.
Popcorn sellers file away like pavement ants, your face hardens to a glass
as I crown you actor of the week.
Having been passed through the hands of others, the milk you deny me
has its drawbacks, thus I am teetering on the brink of closure.
I have the smell of night around me, a thoughtful fly ahead
licking my boot before its cardiac arrest.
Ice age mammals and unsweetened porridge cease to work.
I spew sticky sick on an already sticky spring-layered floor.
Only minutes away: the sun, electrolytes.
You’re not who you thought you were.
___________
Jared Sagar is a writer living in Norwich, United Kingdom with his partner Clare and hamster Gertie.
These poems were chosen by Anthropocene Guest Editor HLR.
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