the wheels on the bus go quack quack quack

- lately things feel backward backward

like all I’ve got are pipe dreams,

aluminum evidence, a worms-eye view.

these days there’s a haze that blurs

the springboks and the venting

and the reasons I had for living.

in the mirror all I see is a butte;

dumb cupboards in the kitchen.

I drink hot blood, eat plumcots

and keratin, dream of horrible bear bears.

ostensibly I’m solid: wet bones,

a job, time to feed the birds.

in reality I’m something else:

something dirty and ineffable.

Jonathan Focht is a poet and amateur musician. His poems have recently appeared or are forthcoming in The Maine Review, CAROUSEL, Variant Literature, Lychee Rind, and The Walleye. He lives in Montreal.