/rachel lederer


i’ll lie about it but
i think that if i count to 30 and a car doesn’t pass by
a bird flies into the window at 15 and

in empty despite i search
how to kill what makes us idle
how to silence what makes

an old woman on a cloudy day
who swears to you
she has never seen anything so

webs stretch over corners
alive because they haven’t once been
touched – i am halfway out the

feeling sick with familiarity in
cities i’ve never been, like nothing
is ever ever new or

a fan circulates indoor air and i let it
lazy with love for what isn’t

venus’ flower basket

water can be sharp
on the dawning of the shock
glass spined sponges
housing lovers til they’re locked

light washing over surfaces
that don’t bother to talk
to their insides – but i get it
i think they are just

waiting on the mountains
to collapse under their dust
patterns that slow it down
a reason to have thumbs

sink into an ocean
that you have never seen
drown a pretty melody
bury its epiphany

when you’re tired of yourself
you can be tired of

Rachel Lederer is a writer living in New York City.