When the Earth Breathed Volcanoes

We sink into truth, hold communion at a local haunt hole-in-the-wall.
Debt relief.
After work, sometimes, I find asylum here, overtipping staff.

You sit, shambled, unfurling like grace, spooling
slowly, carefully,
as if seconds peeled from a rainstorm’s end. We breathe

in volumes, the world can’t hear us over Halloween lights

flashing, footprints,
nervous table
rapping.
Together,

spinning like vapor trails,
disappearing
becomes thoughtful. I would
sacrifice

these hands, but, they,
bludgeoned from knowing,
have fallen
from my arms.

Born in Detroit, Jacob DeVoogd lives and works in Chicago. He is a graduate of the MFA program at Western Michigan University. @JacobDeVoogd