Nora Almeida

  Blizzard or Dismay

  The low radio, sleet in sheets. Numb
landscapes of sleep itself a season.
This double bed dosage, this motel
pool headache room, US-RT noon poster.
Ghosts a hinge. Middle America all over
the dashboard and under the bridge
in a coat of melatonin. Plastics.
When a road becomes the stone
of a pulse, pulsing. A completely
disassociated bumper, elevator
cavity of repetition. Remorse is
not defeat in the cloudy bathwater of memory.
One wrong word strung among infinite
lanterns along high beams. Rusts
the arcane needles. What you need is
to wake up early, to dig yourself out.
It is enough to breath it, to lean into it, to be
blind or dazzled, to tremble beside
the red red red red
spot of the sun, awake and empty.

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