By: Karen Chen
Hold my hand as you walk to the river. Low ankles in dirt,
your baby toes soggy and printed and perfect forever.
Before going under, see:
tectonic ice plates tinged green, like fat saturated in stew.
Then let me borrow your obsolete eyes,
their lids turned cold, their color accrued.
Now, above us is still-breathing sky, too much to soak up, a sun that has stalled.
I wonder if airplanes see Legos or whether they see us at all.
