Amongstment

Mark Scott

To be screwed between the body and the capsule:

to be altogether foregone—quantumnal

mornings that shrink beneath the moon’s

scrutiny: a hefty log thrown into a chipper 

some place where birds chirp the worms up

and every day is cold, the rest of the universe 

lost in an aimless thought, then captivated, 

suddenly made aware of the jutted wood

perforating its abdomen, its cascading into softer,

fractal pieces, the time it ceases—drifting 

further into the annals of last pages, autopsy 

reports, postcards, report cards, passports, fore-

words and certificates of birth, playgrounds; the capsule 

at hand, under the tongue: tugged 

by the mind, the liver, bladder; helping some-

body, the body digests—mulling through

what’s put into it, around it, whether it 

is good, the something shoved into something 

else longed for, or chastised, following the aimless 

screw—between the leaf and the shoe, a moment 

and another moment—running for mother’s

frantic hand a flag in the wind 

as the train runs faster than the air

that dries your eyes—between a life

and another life—the carpet,

the ottoman, or merely between.