this is the life :: heather mchugh

His watch is wicked, going on
without him. Pass your hand
across the blue man’s lips and
Q.E.D. We know we breathe

(and quite without our help) but then
we know we know, and so forget.
It’s strange to be alive but we
have not felt awe since we were someone’s

kid, and that was once
upon a time. In time we taught ourselves
to find the world mundane, and all
the unknown unsurprising, like

next Sunday, for example.
God himself gets bored, God knows.

On holidays we like to make
some sugar on a rope, some fallout

in the form of rocks,
the Science City someone gave

to Junior, Christmas Day. And you can etch
your name in the petri dish with pure

bacteria, or in the virgin snow with piss.
We draw lines at skin, for different,
at heart for dead; the EEG goes on all by itself. We used
to sing, and when we did, we sensed

the air itself was lively; then we fell
back into dream, we froze. And all night long
in the drawing room, after the household’s asleep,
the crystal grows.