invitation
teal thing that flickers
on the roadside
this artificial day
no season beginning
or ending, a burst of wind
to scrub the earth
I know there is some thing
I have failed to observe
for several days
I won’t know what
personal life
it’s hard to think
when they’re drilling upstairs
slightly in the next room
then right up close
for an hour I can taste it
bruising the sky
unusual clouds
in November I think love
I think touching everything
I think softly about weather balloons
their individual, doomed arcs
through the cumulonimbus
my social life begins in the throat
a theater extending into the atmosphere
flickering or elastic, complex
and unable to reach you
something in the water is tender
across the continent
I send you pictures of unusual clouds
I am trying
to enter your atmosphere
Hanna Shea is a writer and editor living in Western Massachusetts. Her work has appeared in Sixth Finch, Big Lucks, Salt Hill and elsewhere. She is the co-editor of the lit journal COVER.