Open it up in the daytime, and the apartment is frigid
and thick with light. It glares at me and is full of everything I own.
I have a big book, Murphey Oil Soap, and a coffin.
At night, I gnaw on raw ginger root in the dark. I am very afraid
to turn off my T.V.
What would happen if I sat notably still, like an iron?
What if I dug straight into the sofa?
What if I were at the base of the sieve?
What would happen during that silence? (Besides my
obese, clapping thoughts. Or a murder.
Or my foxy roommate breezing through. She has
very straight teeth.)
Maybe a hymn would ebb and roll under our feet.
The gush would turn off the messages. It could cut the battery.
Will I die?
Will my animals stop trying to find me?
Questions are not fit for poems. Neither advice
nor tenderness. My methods and ways by which to survive
worked well, back then. Those systems
mean next to nothing, now.
I do remember changing the locks. I finger the keyholes once
in a while, entertaining the idea of meeting someone half-way.
Instead, the sounds of the 10 o'clock news bleed into my concerns.
I continue to pull away slowly, with precision and care. The clots
of glue make the best sound when they finally snap.
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