A lost voice gets in the cereal box, eats
the oats. Six months later,
you pour the voice into a bowl, it’s dead,
you give it anyway mouth to mouth.
Your wife comes home, sees your lips
haven’t been alone, accuses you of making out.

When you kick the radiator
in your divorced apartment, no heat rises.

Somewhere a woman
walks up to the weather and mimes the storm.

Your letter home is sent by accident
to the clink. “I miss you,” a condemned man
reads on the five hundredth Tuesday
of his near-death experience. In return
he writes, “You have handwriting
capable of pulling an inside job.”

Somewhere a woman
slips a note through a slot. “This is a robbery.
Give me all the screaming you’ve got.”