some are drawn to kill all their enemies
I am tired. I am standing in my room. I am
going to clean the toilet with seawater. I have
been working all day. I work so that I can
gain enough power to trap myself in revolving
doors. Now I have finished work. The fog will
gather around me in disgrace. I wait before
taking my shoes off. I have eyelids as thick as
banquets. I hate taking my shoes off. I want to
walk under a roof for miles. I believe that stones
should be gathered at the back of rooms. I hate
looking at my feet.
some are drawn to press against windows
on a Wednesday and already she is stupefied
by how clear the lawn is, full and big with
her hands. She has completed the circle of
her own captivity. She is content to observe
houses falling through houses. All the dead
are big in the sky and her hands are steepled
as their walkway. She would kiss the buried
houses if she could admit that her knees were raw
from being hidden. Outside the trees are falling
through trees. Those years of echoing. Toes
forward. The glass against and through which
possibilities are deployed.