Poem

Because nothing but poetry goes well with 1:30 am mac & cheese after a night in the East Village.

Annie Guthrie | Turning

I can’t sleep. I feel the globe
making a rotation,
and I’m not supposed to be, but I’m awake for it.

I’m at that age when everyone is talking about the kinds of love
they’ve been using to get by.

It’s a very dark late.
The sound of a towel dropping off the rack

into the bath
carries my name with it.

I get up to turn on the dryer
to block out all possibilities of ever

hearing anything else so
fall.

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