When I’m truly beautiful
I’ll believe anything. The great

trundle of history eventually
gallops in the right direction,

doesn’t it? In a raving field
of books, a great landscape 

of wishes, sun bleached dry
pages flailing and my whole 

body elated. The room of myself
all waxy red wires, stringy 

remains of my organs left
burning through the night. I keep 

believing, even as the tides
turn back on me. Salt water 

spikes my nostrils, spackles
my throat. The whole field

is drenched now. And the sun
looks so tired, limp yellow

bulb, dangling there, chord
exposed, so close to the water. 

I still clutch the sacred
scribbles long after the pages 

wash out, the words marred
by holes. I look for the sun 

through a tear in the page, 
pretend there’s an eclipse. 

I pretend, like any old thing, 
it’s a sign.

Bob Sykora is the author of the chapbook I Was Talking About Love–You Are Talking About Geography (Nostrovia! 2016). A recent graduate of the UMass Boston MFA program, he serves as a poetry reader for Split Lip Mag. He can be found online at bobsykora.tumblr.com and @Bob_Sykora_.