Never red-lipped as the red-lipped batfish
though often red-faced, unlike the strawberry
moon, aligned with harvest, not physical
description. Never the berry disappeared
under a couch; instead, always consumed.
Clapped for the saxophonist playing covers
on a patio alongside a recorded accompaniment.
Clapped through the lull when he looked up
forgotten notes, the air cleared like a plate.
Gave a little holler. Never gave blood,
unless plasma for money, unless to test
to tell me what my body couldn’t tell me
without an interpreter. No longer keeping
myself to myself. Of the world again, even
if still a little off it. Never scattered like light
in the dense bog of the atmosphere. At most, feared
to miss my departure due to internal weather.
Never asked for a fog machine for my heart,
but created a mood in my mind, slunk through it.