The television is on, sound just
by Anthony Parker
above a whisper—an incandescent
flickering glow, a campfire manufactured
in Japan. Outside, a handful of stars
levitate in the sky—between buildings
that have taken the shapes of women.
A helicopter with a single
prowling eye moves over telephone
poles. On television Steve McQueen
and his six friends are riding
into town. My body is bent
in strange angles—I will always
hold you as close as a palm
to the chest.