lack of bottle sufficient for message

by Amy Bagwell

you wearing the sunglasses
of a total asshole, me looking

to get past you, and the excuses
almost sing themselves, louder

than the radio preacher confounding
himself, clearer than rain because

of course it’s raining when we
reach our hotelroom, where the TV

stands on metal legs and holds
your attention, while I live again

for the darkness between
commercials, the opposite

of flicker, whatever that’s called.
brief, black, quiet. the set regretting

everything it saw and repeated,
everything it never said, but unable

to reckon with more than a second
here and there. otherwise: noise

and flash and counterfeit
satisfaction. and your stare.


AMY BAGWELL’s poems are recently/forthcoming in The Eyewear Reviewwhere is the riverTerminus Magazine, and Vallum: Contemporary Poetry. She makes text-based art, co-directs Wall Poems and Goodyear Arts, and teaches at CPCC in Charlotte.