There are gaskets inside us, turning movie reels. In the box office, two nights ago, I had meant to say, I collected all your pictures and hung them inside my head. Without further attention this amounts to: I won’t ever have to look at an image of you, in order to imagine you. This is the same feeling as standing really close to a tree and smelling its bark. There is one bird’s nest close to my house, made of hair and Coney Island salt. Someone should tell the island they worship that they are coming home. I am looking past myself. Past the point of batting the air.
I think lying down, sorta in the light but also among beautiful objects spinning around. I don’t want to recycle anything. I would never let go of a balloon.
Paige Taggart lives in Brooklyn. Her chapbook Polaroid Parade is forthcoming with Greying Ghost Press. She has an e-chapbook, Won't Be A Girl with Scantily Clad Press. She's a 2009 recipient of the New York Foundation of the Art’s grant. More poems from To People Who Sometimes Read can be found or are forthcoming in Raleigh Quarterly, Sink Review, No Tell Motel, pax americana, Glitterpony. Check out her blog: http://