Fitzroy Commission Flats
By Melody Paloma
Poem after Jennifer Rankin
can’t catch how the light hits the flats, at seven PM in early summer,
my iPhone camera never gets it right:
bedroom wall cracked open
pulled into grass lit orange
flat on your back
pressed in and up
blue, the shape of an eye
almost, and blowing
air on the nose tip
ped over
between blinks, swinging
intertia or vertigo or physics
or illusion of self motion
not just flat
on google maps
a line that keeps moving
past the periphery.