by Jessica Millnitz

Either a smartphone or a bad friend. The faded floral
purple cushion in the yard or an over-turned chair on the
patio. Sun melting snow makes verdant green vibrant. A
different dry yellow brightly needles around the east
entrance like a birthmark, a burn scar, under the back part
where the weekend wax is water. Drips slowly west and an
inch or two north over time. Wet concrete and grass or
moist vinyl and steel. The terraced garden sunset or the
flapping blue tarp. The view of you I have is at this sly angle
cutting through an intersection.

Jessica Millnitz is from Nebraska. She has an MFA from Bard College and her writing has appeared in RealPoetik, Fruita Pulp and with Kyle Crawford and Jeff Alessandrelli in the chapbook American Room Weather (SP_CE, 2013). She lives in Manhattan.