Cameron Morse

FLICK

Leaf light’s the flicker
I myself might
disappear in, a shuddering
candle flame, November
of the pink pill
in a dark blue bottle: Temodar.
I set my alarm to vibrate
in the dark theater. Remind
me of what’s Ziploc’d
in the breast pocket of my winter jacket.
I set my alarm but I don’t wait
for it to vibrate, peeking
at the time, again
and again, until close enough
I down the anti-nausea
an hour before I drop the bomb.
A sun god flickers.
His booth tucked among clouds. 

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