Image © Doug Paul Case 2017
|by Doug Paul Case||October 17, 2017|
The natural light in my bathroom
is finicky: blinding at eight and barely
trickling by noon. My neighbor
has a tree. I spend afternoons
calculating other possible orbits, but
really, there aren’t any. Maybe if
we all got out and pushed, we could
find the sun a new angle.
It’s so round. Once I told a stranger
its density physically aroused me,
and yes, that’s a great way
to finish your coffee in the solitude
you were looking for. Never
have I approached someone staring
so intently out the window. Never
is it bright enough. Nothing
lines up correctly and my skin
washes out in the flash.
Doug Paul Case lives in Bloomington, where he recently earned his MFA from Indiana University. His poems have recently appeared in Hobart, Salt Hill, The Adroit Journal, and (b)OINK.