Walking upstairs. Walking

towards you

What

         was your dream sweet thing? 

     It is how the day breaks

around me, everyone 

already down in 

      the water                 a  buoy flickers.  

    I can hear the siren from the 

    firehouse

         the lost boy    who steals

matches    is in love again.       Here is 

the dusty kitchen 

            [ the refrigerator door ] ,

     your body rifling behind it —

                                        clunk-clunk. 

   You keep going as I reach my hand

Who springs

out of the dark with a fresh, red apple?

---

Marcus Iwama is a writer based out of Queens, NYC. He is compelled by slippage in its many forms: ghosts, coincidences, (mis)translations, slanted light…He is currently working on a book of poems. Some of his other writing can be found in the Cleveland Review of Books and Little White Lies magazine.