Corey Zeller


The clear fields in a dying horse's eye

Blue sky, cloud after cloud passing through a black iris. What else is there to know but that everything ends? You go to a place where there are no people, no houses, no windows. There is nothing to look in or out of, nothing to harbor or hide. Alone: you simply move through yourself, haunted, a lonely banter. Ask me: what is there to tell the air if doesn't even believe in itself, when it has yet to find an equal? In the open space, your body might as well be a ceiling, a ceremony of inches and hair, fingerprints like doors. You're a surface that the world is washing clean, over and over, till it can see its own face inside you. What it sees is whole history of bodies made of hands. What it sees it calls a ghost.




The clock on the bed and the white horse sad as the island

Neither can tell me what time it is because time is a mirror made wrong. I am the one behind the rounded glass. I am the long hand and short, moving my arms and legs over numbers and lines. Each one cuts a little. Each one a sharp rivet over what I'm losing. Comply. The TV is an empty shell so I shred newspaper and stuff it inside it to make it look like a station that won't work, like pixels and snowfall. The mirror is easier. You just have to find a frame to stand in, to hold still. What time is it? I am late for something. There are still things left I was supposed to do, appointments no one crossed off. Are you lonely? It is May. I am not so happy about it. Instead, I think of the name of the woman who drove to die so long I forget it. I think of other names too. How Heather, for instance, is not just a name. I think of homophones. Finally, I have become what I always wanted: a room without a door, a field without sky.