AFTERIMAGE

Erich Brumback

Algae covering the surface rippling under the rain,
funerary. That green reminds me

of folding my shirt cuffs back against the buttons, crisp cotton
and listening to Burial on headphones, so ironic.

Or instead, the way the TV holds
a little of its light after leaving—

        [a blue expanse of underlying channels]

—that blooms and decays in my retinal memory.

Later
closing my eyes on a bus ride, early,
the felt seat feels like some theater we went to

but there’s nothing in front of me
except the frosted trees beyond the patterns I screen
and a recent dream of you, intact, mostly.