Maynooth

The rasp of Phoebe Bridgers, from the gut— 

And I’m rooted in place, here 

Where I can see the red Supervalu from inside the red bus. 

When I was small it was the same red, so why did I see God in everything then? 

Sound swells, and the red is a thick sea,  

An opaqueness in which we’re all the same, 

Red wired skeletons, 

All raw beating hearts and exposed nerve rooted, 

Grasping for strings amongst it all, 

And I’m slipping here, as if this is a moment I may lose, 

Under the tidal wave, as the crescendo hits, 

The trumpet sounds— 

The moment ends. I’m back in it.