Andrew Kozma

SONG OF THE INSENSIBLE

The world is an oyster, and I’m the grit.
These are the boots my brother died in.

This city is a tongue, and I’m the bad taste.
I’m the cicada inside the jaundiced pre-storm light.

Hello? You sent this to the wrong address. My brother
is still alive. Still dead. Was brought back

with a lazarus shot and a slap to the face.
I am the leaf litter, the headless roach.

I can walk between raindrops. I can be insensible.
When visibility’s poor, I am the blur on the horizon.

If my brother’s dead, I am not alive.
If I’m alive, my brother can’t be dead.

No one owns the boots. The boots own no one.