Zebulon Huset
Triangle Shaped by Window Inches In, Afternoon
Castoff light
from
an unimpeded sun
also cajoling molecules
before eyeballs.
Some flitting
dust mites
and friction-filched
flecks of dead skin
fletch the air, but
so much nitrogen.
So much volatile,
vibrating chemical,
waiting to kaboom.
Where they mine
natural gas,
faucets
become flamethrowers.
We, flammable carbon
and so much water.
Don't supernova. Yet.
Pace your fission.
The afternoon yawns,
again.
Leave the dishes
in the sink.
Float to bed.
It's early, still.
from
an unimpeded sun
also cajoling molecules
before eyeballs.
Some flitting
dust mites
and friction-filched
flecks of dead skin
fletch the air, but
so much nitrogen.
So much volatile,
vibrating chemical,
waiting to kaboom.
Where they mine
natural gas,
faucets
become flamethrowers.
We, flammable carbon
and so much water.
Don't supernova. Yet.
Pace your fission.
The afternoon yawns,
again.
Leave the dishes
in the sink.
Float to bed.
It's early, still.
Biography
Zebulon Huset is a teacher, writer and photographer. He won the Gulf Stream 2020 Summer Poetry Contest, and his writing has appeared in Best New Poets, Kissing Dynamite, North American Review, Meridian, The Southern Review, Fence, Texas Review and many others. He publishes the prompt blog Notebooking Daily, and edits the journals Coastal Shelf and Sparked.
