The debt collectors come by and take everything. They take my furniture. They take my hair and eyes. I donít even have a face anymore. I walk to the debt collection market clicking my tongue like a bat. I make out the sidewalks and curbs. I make out the streets that lead me to the debt collection market. I canít find my face anywhere. I canít find my furniture. A woman cries into my naked chest about losing her face. I put my arms around her and promise to find her face-parts. We walk down a hallway and open a door to hear what sounds like a group of children tangled in rope. What I would give to be a child tangled in rope.


Sean Shearerís poems are forthcoming or have been featured in Gigantic Magazine, Ampersand Review, Fruita Pulp, and elsewhere. He's the founder & editor-in-chief of BOAAT [website:].