I Try Not to Think About the Vanishing

The sound of the night is soft
breathing. The promise of fire
is ashes. I can never remember,
is it starve a cold and feed a spider?
Is it two blocks up and on the left?
The right? I used to watch the sun
rise every morning, so I get it. I used to
play fetch with my dog until one day
the ball came back without him.
So, I get it. Offer me a million dollars
and I’ll refuse. Offer to kiss my forehead
to check for fever and I’ll refuse.
Why not just set the clocks back
another hour or three? Why not
take all the strings off your guitar
except one? See where that gets you.
Sometimes it’s better to just leave
the bullet right where it is. Sometimes
there’s smoke without a fire.
I hope no one is filming this
because the sky is starting to fray a little
at the edges.

Patrick Meeds lives in Syracuse, NY and studies writing at the Syracuse YMCA’s Downtown Writer’s Center. He has been previously published in Stone Canoe literary journal, the New Ohio Review, Tupelo Quarterly, the Atticus Review, Whiskey Island, Guernica, The Main Street Rag, and Nine Mile Review among others. His first book, The Invisible Man’s Tailor will be released by Nine Mile Press this fall.