Be sure, an aura is for forgetting

the temporary parts of others. It’s like

this little disc of capillary psychedelia

someone loaned me, like a pill less

than nothing, a placebo-shaped space.


Ask the senior lecturer. You come to see

numbness as rich distraction: new novelty

in phantom skin. New skin.


Dear pedestrians, I see your eyes, but suns

are setting in reverse where I think your jaws

should be. When you pass me among

swarms of cars I’m sure I’ll seem super

still. Record it. I won’t remember how.




Patrick Williams is a poet and academic librarian living in central New York. His recent work appears in publications including The Metric, Sundog Lit, 3:AM Magazine, and Heavy Feather Review. He is the editor of Really System, a journal of poetry and extensible poetics. Find him online at patrickwilliamsintext.com and @activitystory on Twitter.