A poem by Sarah Corney

from issue 95

THERE, THERE

The week of the wildfire
T tells me he is going through something
and he says it just like that, in italics.

The air is thick with smoke,
foaming into a new word, haze, until
it does what only haze can do, hangs.

See? Everything can be untangled
into figures of speech. The cloud talks
itself back into its own prosopopoeia.

At least going recalls moti…