Associative Sequence
︎︎︎ Sean Cho Ayres
︎ May 6, 2021
january river: still. we, the geese, still
lumbering. weeds in the river. ice on
the weeds. enough walls close enough
together make a house. these photos
of loved ones too far away to drive
to, but, close enough to call, make it
home. not for us, the geese are thankful
for the shortness of february,
and non-functional hippocampi.
*
the baker bakes bread. the baker’s father
baked bread: same thing with the baker’s
father’s father etc. etc. in awhile, while
at university the baker’s son dyes his hair
green and enrolls in a course about game theory.
does anyone know a good screenwriter?
i’d watch that movie.
*
the way the clouds tell a story, and need wind
to move onto the second act: the geese flying “home”
curve the sky. or. Clover, tonight in rochester
the sky is yellow, and you, just outside of norman
maybe emptying orange slices out of an old can,
in that old tornado shelter that we snuck off too.
tomorrow the window salesman with the billboard
on third street will be getting many calls. fear,
and joy: joy/fear. soon the mortgage will be paid
off. turn the lights down. can’t you see my son
is playing with his new nintendo.
lumbering. weeds in the river. ice on
the weeds. enough walls close enough
together make a house. these photos
of loved ones too far away to drive
to, but, close enough to call, make it
home. not for us, the geese are thankful
for the shortness of february,
and non-functional hippocampi.
*
the baker bakes bread. the baker’s father
baked bread: same thing with the baker’s
father’s father etc. etc. in awhile, while
at university the baker’s son dyes his hair
green and enrolls in a course about game theory.
does anyone know a good screenwriter?
i’d watch that movie.
*
the way the clouds tell a story, and need wind
to move onto the second act: the geese flying “home”
curve the sky. or. Clover, tonight in rochester
the sky is yellow, and you, just outside of norman
maybe emptying orange slices out of an old can,
in that old tornado shelter that we snuck off too.
tomorrow the window salesman with the billboard
on third street will be getting many calls. fear,
and joy: joy/fear. soon the mortgage will be paid
off. turn the lights down. can’t you see my son
is playing with his new nintendo.
Sean Cho A. is the author of American Home (Autumn House 2021), winner of the Autumn House Press chapbook contest. His work can be future found or ignored in Copper Nickel, Pleiades, The Penn Review, The Massachusetts Review, Nashville Review, among others. He is currently an MFA candidate at the University of California Irvine, and will join the PhD program at the University of Cincinnati in the fall. Sean is the Associate Editor of THRUSH Poetry Journal. Find him @phlat_soda.