holes in the curtain
nothing knows how to begin,
without a voice.
a face like a gash
in the windshield of the universe.
rotating, rotating.
we think we inhabit a sphere,
something perfect,
something close to perfect,
but this crust
obviates an egg
with not enough warmth
to hatch anything but sideways
toward an oven.
label it escape hatch.
pretend we do
nothing but.
holes in the curtain (2)
a different stripe.
same zebra.
then it becomes erratic,
or something awfully close,
like the wrong-colored chinos
in pasture-land light.
you just know, intuiting
a choice, a supply line
of blood & laughter
& less is not more
Michael Prihoda lives in central Indiana. He is the editor of After the Pause, an experimental literary magazine and small press. His work has received nominations for the Pushcart Prize and the Best of the Net Anthology and he is the author of eight poetry collections, most recently Years Without Room (Weasel Press, 2018).
