Today will end, but tomorrow will be an oak tree.
So much is sprouting from my toes I can no longer keep track
of the colors. If there are voices in the water, show me a river
to sit in. I have read enough instructions on cleaning carpets in this Age of Aquarius. I
will never give up when there are infinite filtrations
of the same self. Charcoal can never go bad, and my brain
will never be muted. I see the telephone wires in the sun
and I feel myself moving toward a glass library. Feelings will go
as I push them into the ocean and dig a crab from the sand.
We Drove for Hours, Waiting for
If stars are the headlights of angels, we will be saved
before Vallejo, and if not then,
by Vacaville. Can we stop at the Outlets
and get a new pair of pants for me to wear
church? I am ready for the powdered donuts
they serve in the parking lot
Dominic Gualco is from Sacramento, California. His work has appeared at Hobart, Big Lucks and elsewhere. He is the author of the space between knucklebones (Scrambler Books, forthcoming).