conspiracy
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.