As an evening like this when the final hour of light you’ve seen more often
painted—indirect glaze softening stone, spires—is also porno pink, so nostalgia
is a pretty shape though try to fill it and everything sours along Central Park
South, where thoroughbred men emerge mostly unchanged as boys from high
school; not so simple as the silhouette of what someone might’ve once expected
you to become, but in those rooms, what was one shade more than invisible—
insatiable? What’s desire if it’s not constantly interrupted. You want the underside
of leaves to calm you, to check this idea of the past that swells in any light while
your tender, boring body moves as it always has toward some never-mind-weight.
Will Frazier lives in Brooklyn where he is co-founder and coordinator of the Franklin Electric Reading Series. His poems appear or are forthcoming in Washington Square Review, No Tokens Journal, and elsewhere. He studied poetry at the University of Virginia.