Click here to read "Dopamine," one of the poems from Earworm, in The Walrus.
The wind turbine’s tired arms
sway at its sides. It looms over
the expressway. Over the little mouths
of the cars on the expressway.
The turbine is not your real dad.
Your real father is orbiting the earth.
Your biological father has smaller arms.
Your Father in heaven wears fabulous cuffs.
He floats on the air.
He throws cash in the air.
He waves his small arms
and he gathers it up.
In the Victorian Sublets of Failed Actors
The window’s dark scars covered up
with pages torn from back issues
of Empire Magazine.
Stars of the silver screen
out the elements,
work through the gloss,
yield a more acute
projection of desire:
pigeons, parked cars, telephone wires—
a twenty-four-hour feature/
this is how Glamour returns to the street.