The Spirit Speaks to the Body In Pre-Dawn Light, Dreaming of the County Fair Grounds

by Matthew C. Henriksen

Nothing, my friend, is worth shotgun sunsets
Or heat of wind. Nothing is worth the sun,
Golden-egged moon on helium. Nothing,
The hallucination, is worth calling
Cops over. You are worth nothing, my friend.
Even this house, full of thieves we can’t find,
Is worth nothing. Nothing, my friend, is worth
Light, as it comes through the shades, hits carpet
Like a spilled vase, the milk pouring from your eyes.
Milk pours from my eyes, too. Nothing is worth
So much milk, the sunrise curdling clouds
And one of us has slipped off to the bathroom,
Calling for hens to drag us off to war,
Where nothing is worth the place where we were.

Matthew C. Henriksen received a B.A. in Writing from Lakeland College in Sheboygan, Wisconsin, and currently is pursuing an M.F.A. in poetry from the University of Arkansas. His poems have appeared in Fox Cry Review and canwehaveourballback?