I’m using the internet to discern the likelihood
of my being poisoned or drugged, searching things
like how long til I die, History of lacing,
and how bright is the sun supposed to be?!
at which point I realize I’m acting strangely,
but I can’t tell if the problem is the drugs
or my fear of the drugs. I measure the distance
between the world in front of me and a world
wanting to trick me, but in the measuring
the distance dances away like water droplets
on a skillet. The sky above me fills like a bucket
with birds. An airplane announces itself then hides
behind a cloud. I stare at a stand
of black-eyed susans until I can’t
remember what name to call them. I think
about myself until my existence seems entirely
unlikely, and though I still don’t know
about extra-curricular activity in the pepperoni,
I worry that I’ll be dissecting mosquito cadavers and singing
to windowsills by bedtime. I look at a chair and
wonder if it could bite me. A couple hours later
I’m still trying to make sense of trees – the way
each year they go gold and shatter and come together
again right under our noses. When I fall asleep
I watch bandanna-ed men hang tiny wind chimes
from hooks in my heart. They won’t let me pay them
and they won’t take off their boots. In the morning
I go to the kitchen and call things
by the names I’ve memorized for them.
Wesley is pursuing an MFA at the University of North Carolina at Greensboro. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Story South, the Connecticut River Review, and The Adroit Journal.