by Alex Eliasen
Salt begins to form
Soy sauce half full, spilt over
Sediments of dusk
Holes in each pocket
Quarters remain for parking
The lights off each month
I dreamt of neon
Glowing water, pointed home
Chili powdered hope
Cast iron ages
Dragons will burn their tails too
Red seeps through the glass
The bell’s stillness grows
With circadian cleaning
Stickiness remains
Future Histories 