X Number

of waves dropped into froth     Jellyfish a jar
of innards half-buried in sand     Dead nature     What are
these things and who are they for?     This blue rug
is its own genre     And these painted apples
round out the essence of what can be made
into what can be eaten     Winter interest
3.9 APR     April come     She will not
swipe the sun into sky     Limits of credentialed
credit     “At least you’re not the janitor’s
azaleas of the everyday dustpan”     There’s
the problem     It’s like a concussive
grenade at the end of the mine     Mind the
income gap     Let’s activate the fact that
every word means go back to the back of the line
because that is where the front leads     Years
of the postmodern translated by the annuity
of spring     Hello     My name
is the first person I     I am indebted     I am
indented     I insist on remaining
unidentified
 

Copyright Credit: Chris Glomski, "X Number." Copyright © 2019 by Chris Glomski. Used by permission of the author for PoetryNow.
Source: PoetryNow (2019)