Trilogy (Abbreviated)

By Anthony Hagen

I 

Tinnitus sounding off, that cop across
your rearview: tiny moments, but enough,
you think. Not abject pain, but maybe time
compressed into its least ideal conclusions.
An old receipt for coffee and detergent:
how’d that show up? You throw it out then sit
back down. The air is just a bit too warm. 

II 

Convinced that everybody else is yours
in common need, but fundamentally
at distance: that old song and dance again.
Our stale philosophizing, topics dulled
by overuse: our mothers’ Death of God
theology, our fathers’ antinatalist  
approach, abbreviations of the past.

Anthony Hagen is a native of Northern Virginia and currently lives and works in Pittsburgh. Recent work can be found in American Poetry Journal and Willawaw Journal.