We went to Akron for a second
to set up drawers for thoughts we left back home.
How could we construct a day
without the corduroys of our youth?
How could we arrange the afternoon
without developing theories about how we got here and why.
Tell me about your papier mâché hotels,
and the way you scroll through life
with evenings on your side.
You are to me as the Triangle is to me.
As the west proclaims its industry to the north.
In the middle of a serenade the clouds burst into tears. They are soldiers in the scene where
folding chairs live. Have you been to Nevada? Are there satellite globes along the road? Take
me to the furniture store, and I will show you red chairs that belong elsewhere. And what if
the serifs share evenings with the president. Do they wear blue to combine content with
admiration? Do they place jars on the page? I gave you Arkansas when you were afternoon.
You began sentences with “hi” and “true.” In the medium photographic unit of this state, it’s
the anthems that keep us going.
Goodbye, little soldier, tell me later what you see as you fall into the chamber. Are your
gloves attached to the sleeves of your coat? Do you run through the planisphere gasping for
air? When will you deem it necessary to admire a day like today: your mouth full of clouds.
Your general regard for our forefathers: a brick placed in a basket of bricks. For who can
admire the nascent space industry when the pharmacist keeps calling you Dave? You admire
the lion brigade and the advancements they’ve made. You are austere like a folding chair.
You are bold like a skylark.
Declare Yourself a Garden
You destroyed the lampshade when you entered the room. Who talks to you most when your
hair is wet from drowning? You have set aside this corner of the atmosphere. You think about
congressional meetings, Mozart, a television falling from the sky. All this to say: reveal the secret!
Document the pain. Wipe those tears that stain the rug. Find yourself figuratively demeaning: your
hat on your sleeve, your crown on your boot, olives hanging from your brow. Would I but glance
in your direction: fractions would be conquered in my mind.
ALINA GREGORIAN is the author of Navigational Clouds, a forthcoming chapbook from Monk Books, Flags for Adjectives, a forthcoming chapbook from Diez, and Flying Bark, a forthcoming full-length book from Coconut Books. She curates a video poetry series on the Huffington Post, co-curates Triptych Readings, and co-edits the collaboration journal Bridge. She teaches at Rutgers University, and lives in Brooklyn, NY.