by Erik Moyer
It starts with a sinking feeling,
pennies slowly unpinched.
They pool like sentimentals
in a dented box, head hung
and eyes down, a pink slip
wadded in your pocket.
It’s night, and you spill
like beer onto the bed.
The body eastward
a wildfire, still all you seem
to notice is the brick-
breaking, brick-breaking
outside your window.
You don’t sleep because
you don’t know how,
instead electing to stare
at spots on the ceiling
while the foundation
cries itself apart.
Erik Moyer is from Hillsborough, New Jersey. His work has been featured in New Reader Magazine, Sonder Midwest, and the Virginia Literary Review. He currently attends the MFA program at UC Irvine, while serving as a graduate instructor in poetry writing. Outside of school, he works as a data scientist.
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