Eleni Padden


The masses are glowing sexual.
Full and harmonious
bulbs which are stabilized, blanketed
by each other’s limbs, and by words
spiderwebbed together as resilient,
springy mesh. Fondling a blueprint like this one,
there’s no extra chair at the table,
all things in even pairs,
the galactic symmetry of shoes,
eyes, nostrils, adjacent orange segments.
All things halved, all halves
matched, even magnets know, those
chilled hunks of idiot metal with so much
intent, vigorous invisible tugging
in the direction of a shared reality,
something golden and all yours,
fasten to it, something defined, with edges
and vertices—
well it glows, and I sit, drunkenly
eating dill pickles
like it’s the end
of the funny jinxed world, getting juice
on my collar.
Hemispheres and patterns, the lot of us.