Benjamin Goldberg



Each blink adds meters to the rift
            between my feet and the car-clotted
blocks of a city to which my fist

of cardiac tissue cannot analogize.
            Turbines whir. Eyes shirk grids
of skyscrapers for pigeon nests

at the edge of an engine casing.
            This is shrinking at its finest—
cabin lights ejecting thunderheads

from my window as my pulse
            again, becomes turbulence. I seek
new crisis. Something cirrus. An iris.



When everything stops making sense, sound refuses to follow suit. It tells me what I’m thinking and where I’m going with it.