Corey Green
ROBERT,
On Monday morning
when I open
the door and let
only a little
surge
of sunlight into my apartment,
when I bear its searing
omnipresence before
my car burns across
the heated rock,
when the sun has raised out
of the dust like a God
giving birth to itself,
when it dies like a false religion,
and all the suit-clad
prophets that healed the stock
market and with a singe pulled
with tongs from the stove purified
the “why” I forgot
to wipe off, when they
too are as cold as dirt,
I do not think of you.
But in the birth and death
of heat, even
in its memorial, are remnants
held in a body,
in your body, multiplied by
touch, body to body.
Corey Green has published in Poetry Motel and Red Owl Magazine. He will begin an MFA at Georgia State University in the Spring.
