Erik Anderson



from The Identity Event


A woman pushes her son in a stroller. The wheels go round.

The suburb beats on but dully.


In the distance, a plane. We point.


It’s all—everything—predicated

on the premise: nothing will happen

the night fall and all that

happens eclipsed


by the nothing that won’t

and the nothing that will.




So I heave my heart in my throat, with cocktails, pills,

small animals—accumulating what?


It’s too easy or too hard to make a show of it, the heart.

You can’t defend against a body

but who grows up with one?


Or the body around them bodes (this could happen

to you) or doesn’t: they don’t

turn into others, him an other or them, they—




Listen in for what were going to do
put your hands around my neck
to interrupt my breathing

sea, the desert
a part of that sea and the sea
a part of that desert

the written extends
the read and the read is the sea
of the written extending
an extension, a reciprocal sea