emily jacobi

 

 

Wasted vacation bitching at starless heat.
Burning two cigarettes to tell time,
flavors repeat: dry dinner garlic spitting in oil.
Call to tell you I miss fucking you, standing
on boiling sea rock. Light a fire and call it the greatest.
Don’t grip the sand. You would know what to do
when the burns tip the mountain.
Turn back the beaming notification.
It’s only the full moon rising historically bright.
I need you to remind me
that I am wrong
about the way that I live;
Mountains burn in August.
Plumes of smoke rise away from their source.
Oysters are overpriced and go down too quickly.
The sea is scentless without the breeze.
Flames are silent until they spit against the window screen.
TSA will confiscate bags filled with earth, sand and shells.
Point to the moon. Replace it with a collective response.
Dig up the smoke and enjoy the breeze.