Ivan Pentchoukov

A past last

Hiding in the spikes by the shore. It hovers up from the Atlantic’s horizon. Behind, a city running. The bomb is a plane. Popular information in the waking world. Kneel to count your change, check the time, tuck your shirt. It has six colorful wings, large as sky scrapers. It hovers as though there is a string tucked somewhere under its belly. And the nevermuted thought - “never here, it can’t come here.” Back again to the street to measure altitudes of what may collapse with a barometer. “His name was Niels Bohr.” Well, yes, maybe. And so many more smarter than you, better than you, faster than you, kinder than you. So many more known and loved. So many more not in pain.

Collect bricks in a plastic bag until it tears.

Watch for star reflections in the mud.

Sleep only if the alarm is set.