narcolepsy arms
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sarah c. rauch


What I Do on Saturday Afternoons

At the space where the streets meet
in front of the United States Courthouse
I count ten pillars supporting
an institution and think this
number must mean something
or else it is the law.

Afternoon warmth has draped
over this square and pasted clouds
along what may be a horizon.
If I could scale the sky I would see
the square I sit in is small;
smaller than my heart
sounding in my chest as I watch
you move across my body
in a sweep of stop and start.

On the wind comes down a wish,
and, oh, what a wish;
to crack you open, gently,
roll you along a hard surface
the way I would a boiled egg.
So the shell slides off, revealing
the lucid center, still whole.

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