by Corey Green

On Monday morning
                       when I open
                            the door and let
                  only a little
         of sunlight into my apartment,
       when I bear its searing
                omnipresence before
       my car burns across
                       the heated rock,
                when the sun has raised out
       of the dust like a God
          giving birth to itself,
when it dies like a false religion,
                 and all the suit-clad
                 prophets that healed the stock
                    market and with a singe pulled
               with tongs from the stove purified
                    the “why” I forgot
       to wipe off, when they
               too are as cold as dirt,
                  I do not think of you.

But in the birth and death
               of heat, even
      in its memorial, are remnants
          held in a body,
     in your body, multiplied by
             touch, body to body.

Corey Green has published in Poetry Motel and Red Owl Magazine. He will begin an MFA at Georgia State University in the Spring.