When the air dies down your heart sounds like someone opening and closing
a hollow door. When the door opens the softest breeze cuts through, blows
over a pop-up city with an unnamed lake filled with the spit of strangers
where a sailboat sinks, screams. Where tiny people can’t swim. Fish kisses like
wet tissues in your hand and a beautiful girl walking away from the shore,
disappearing into the music, cue the music of the city and the half-drunk
prince pausing in a kitchen window, ten feet of boat rope dangling from
his palm, watching it all go down and because we don’t care, we don’t care.
Noah Falck is the author of Life As A Crossword Puzzle (Open Thread, 2009). His poems can be found in numerous publications, most recently La Petite Zine, Smartish Pace, Makeout Creek, Sentence, and Dark Sky Magazine. He is a season ticket holder to the University of Dayton men’s basketball games. Action shots at noahfalck.org.