Fridays beneath glass ceilings
by Christine Surka
I close my
Eyes and it
Closes in on like a spindle
Spinning in a needle’s
Thread. Someday
When you’re old and
Far too sober, you’ll
Be too rational for a
Suitable oceanside
Brash affair, like
A diamond, only less
Cultured, which
Can douse itself
In vinegar, or acid
Or whatever the fuck
Diamonds need
To corrode just a
Little
(A little coal-like
Flair never hurt anyone).
And you’ll be too
Sensical to answer
My unspeech,
And the way some of us
Prefer sinking into couches
Like quicksands
Over slick
Verb plays. A windmill
Strokes the ceiling: I follow it!
I’m skirting edge with the dusts.